Starers

by Nathan Robinson

  ‘Just try and rest please Dylan. I don’t want a fuss.’

  ‘He punched me. I need to know why. I can’t let that rest.’

  Kirsty said nothing; she pulled away, removing the cold compression from the side of his head. The throbbing pain started to flow back as hot blood flooded into the bruise.

  ‘I’m off to see him. This needs sorting.’

  Again, Kirsty said nothing. Dylan took another sip of water and handed the glass back to Lucy. As he moved back to the door, he noticed the gathered crowd outside the front window shoulder to shoulder. There were more of them. A lot more. A sea of blank, unknowing faces stared stoically back at him. Well, Lucy to be precise.

  Lennon was on the landing, he had a lit cigarette in his fingers, the window was wide open and he was blowing smoke outside. In his hand, he played with his Zippo, the one from the dream, turning it over and over in his fingers. Although it was just an innocent object, somehow it seemed like an ominous memento.

  ‘Hey bro, how’s the hangover?’ Dylan asked.

  ‘Never mind that, how’s your head?’ he said, his expression solemn and scorned.

  ‘I’ll live.’

  ‘I am sorry, I was tetchy and drunk. I apologise.’ Lennon looked at him as earnest as he could muster, ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘I know you didn’t mean to Len. I just want to know why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Fear? I had a dream last night that those things were after me. Chasing me down street after street, I’d get more and more tired, and they’d get closer, but never catch up with me. It was horrible. I couldn’t wake up, I couldn’t get away. I just had to keep running.’

  Dylan’s dream tore through his mind’s eye like a locomotive. He wanted to tell Lennon about what he saw, but something held him back. He didn’t have the heart to confess to him that he’d met with an undead version of his brother whilst bound by slumber.

  ‘Did you dream Dyl?’ Lennon asked, taking another toke on his cigarette.

  ‘I slept like a baby until Kirsty woke me up. So I must have needed it.’ He gave a slight cough of a laugh, not even convincing himself.

  Lennon raised one eyebrow suspiciously, as if he already knew there was more to the matter. But thankfully for Dylan, he didn’t push it.

  ‘I thought you’d had your last smoke?’

  ‘I had half, and then stubbed it out. I was trying to ration. You want the last bit?’

  ‘Sure,’ Dylan approached the landing window without fear and took the last smoke in the entire house from his brother. He borrowed Lennon’s lighter and lit it. About an inch was left; it felt like he was taking the contraband off a man waiting to face the firing squad.

  Dylan put it to his lips and inhaled, exhaling the sweet smoke above the heads of the crowd. He handed the lighter back to Lennon, then Dylan looked out the window; the crater from the plane was still smouldering; vagaries of smoke fingered sporadically towards the charcoal sky, though he couldn’t see any lit fires. The worst must have been over. The side of the house closest to the field was polluted with soot from the fire; it spread around the front of the house with static, black, billowing fingers that held onto the house with a deathly grasp.

  ‘A lot more of them this morning, you can hardly see the ground for faces,’ Lennon noted. He tapped the Zippo on the windowsill, rotating it over and over with his thumb and index finger. He was agitated by the situation.

  ‘Yup,’ Dylan responded, then, ‘why’d you drink all that booze?’

  Lennon sighed then blew air from between his lips, ‘Dunno, stress maybe, fear, stupidity?’ He paused and pulled that puppy dogface. ‘Sorry about the carpet.’

  ‘Say that to Kirsty, she picked it out.’

  ‘The vomit?’

  ‘The carpet.’

  Lennon smiled sheepishly, ‘I’ll clean it up. I’ll scrub it new.’

  With a sweet remembrance of when he smoked full time, Dylan tugged his breath through the self destructive cigarette then flicked the ember into the waiting crowd below.

  ‘I know you will.’

  Lennon smiled. Dylan did not. He looked down at Celeste Marks, who in turn looked at his daughter through the front window. Celeste Marks, the girl of his dreams, right there waiting for him, teasing him. Celeste Marks, the girl who turned down his marriage proposal, who shredded his heart, pissed him off so much he punched his own boss in a drunken rage, losing his once promising job as a recording studio’s new apprentice assistant. If things were different, he’d be married to her and would have been a top music producer by now no doubt. That had been the dream. The fantasy of the future had been a lie. He’d been told that he had an ear for talent. Music had been destiny, delivering computer parts had been his fate.

  Celeste Marks; taunting him from his past made him shiver.

  ‘Just to get things straight,’ said Dylan coolly, ‘if you’d pulled what you did this morning, on any other day,’ he pointed outside to the crowd, ‘and if they weren’t outside and we weren’t trapped in here. I wouldn’t have hesitated to put your lights out right about now. You’re my brother and I love you. But you’re lucky to still have your jaw intact, any other day and things would be very different right now . . .’

  ‘Dyl, listen . . .’ Lennon tried.

  ‘No, you listen,’ he placed his hand firmly on his brother's shoulder, and squeezed hard, digging his fingers in, ‘I’m trying to keep this family together despite the circumstances. I feel like a right bastard for the effort as well. My wife probably hates me for what I said to Lucy. Lucy hates me, because . . . she just does, and you . . . you’re a fucking idiot for that stunt you pulled last night. I wouldn’t be surprised if we all ended up killing each other. . .’

  ‘Don’t say that Dyl. I’m sorry all right, I wasn’t thinking straight. It’s them outside, they’ve got me worried, wound up like. Y’know, like it would be the last time I got drunk.’

  ‘You were drunk the night before!’

  ‘You know me, I’m weak-willed. I can’t say no. The beer was just sitting there. I couldn’t not drink it.’

  ‘Yes you could. It’s called willpower, and respect. Here’s me rationing food and water and there’s you supping every last bit of booze in the house like a crazed pig.’

  ‘I only drank half the rum, and I think you’ll find I left you a beer in the fridge,’ Lennon protested, half proud.

  ‘Well gee, thanks Len. That’s much appreciated. What about the JD?’

  ‘Don’t be like that Dyl . . .’

  ‘You made me like this Len! For all I know I’ve got brain damage after you smashed my head on the fireplace.’

  ‘Hey you grabbed me; I pushed you away, that was all. You tripped on a bottle and fell. I never meant for it to happen. It was an accident, they happen.’

  ‘Because of your stupidity! Don’t you realise that? Can’t you get that into your thick skull,’ Dylan tapped his head, instantly regretting it as it shook his already rattled brain. He turned and headed back along the landing.

  ‘I said I’m sorry! Please don’t be like this bro . . .’

  ‘I know you can’t, but I just want you to leave!’

  ‘Say Dyl?’

  ‘What?’ Dylan bit back.

  ‘What did you call Lucy to make them mad at you? You never mentioned it in the pub.’

  Dylan stopped, ‘I called her a slut. I called my own daughter a fucking slut. That’s what makes me a bastard.’ Dylan turned and left, leaving Lennon to stew on the landing on his lonesome.

  Downstairs, Kirsty and Lucy moved towards him to check the bruise on his head, which over the hours had formed a large bulging bump on the right hand side of his skull. She kissed his cheek. He noticed that she’d cleared away the beer bottles and attempted to sponge away the splodge of Lennon’s internal juices and wasted beer that he’d spilled out onto the carpet.

  ‘Your bump’s raised. That’s a good thing,’ she told him.

  ‘Why’s that a good thing?’
<
br />   ‘It means the pressure isn’t building inside your head and pressing against your brain.’

  ‘Still hurts.’

  ‘Here, Dad,’ Lucy handed her father two little white tablets and a fresh glass of water, ‘Mum says they’ll help take the edge off.’ She smiled like the little girl he hoped she always would be.

  He never wanted Lucy to grow up; he always wanted her to be his little sweetness and nothing more. When she was one, he’d lay on the floor and Little Luce would toddle over and lift up his t-shirt and blow raspberries on his stomach. Strangely obsessed with his bellybutton, she would broggle it with her tiny inquisitive fingers, bringing Dylan into fits of rapturous giggles. From the age of four onwards, whenever he came in through the front door from work, Lucy would always without fail rush off and grab her old man a beer. He taught her to ride a bike, fish and start a campfire. She used to be a right little tomboy. Then she discovered make-up and boys. Soon he’d lost his best little friend forever to the short road to adulthood. He looked to the future; to days he knew he could smile on; when she graduates university, the day she gets married, and the moment she passes her first child to him. Although these days seemed years away, he knew they would rush upon him like a tidal wave of euphoria. With the knowledge that the crowd outside weren’t exactly showing signs of friendliness, Dylan Keene knew that he’d have to fight for the future days. No matter what blood needed spilling. He’d kill for his family; he’d assured himself of that as a fact.

  Dylan took the tablets from his daughter and popped them in his mouth.

  ‘These better not be laxatives,’ he said before a swallow of water. Lucy smiled.

  ‘One is, the other was a Viagra.’

  ‘How would you know about Viagra?’

  ‘I’m not child, Dad. I know a lot of things that you think I don’t know about.’

  ‘I don’t even want to begin to know what you know about Luce.’

  Lucy smiled, she beamed in fact. They had found a common ground of understanding. She knew things that he didn’t know she knew. She was growing up. It was a fact that he’d have to learn to deal with, not her. He was the one with the problem. One day she’d get married and he’d have to let go forever. What they’d been through the last few days was just the first finger of letting go of his daughter’s hand before she went out into the world on her own. Boys were only part of him letting go.

  ‘Dad, what you said the other night, I have forgiven you. I know why you said it. I understand. But I just wanted you to know that I’m okay. He was the first boy I’ve. . .’

  ‘Lucy, right now, that is the least of my worries. And even if it was at the top of my priorities, I still want to be spared the gory details. I just don’t want to know. You’re a girl turning into a fine young woman, and there’s some things that you’re just going to have to discover by yourself. Whether they hurt you or not, it will be up to you to make your own mistakes. Just remember that your mother and I will always love you.’

  ‘Thanks Dad . . . friends?’

  ‘Sure . . . why not!’

  Lucy surged forward for a hug, as did Kirsty.

  ‘What you said to Lennon. I think you said the right thing. It has to be said.’

  ‘I know Kirst; I had to be the one to say something before my head popped. As much as it pained me, he needs to be told he’s a disappointment in my eyes. I can’t have him messing up all the time. I know he’s a fuck-up. Pardon my French, but I’m sick of it.’

  Kirsty smiled, so did Lucy.

  ‘Breakfast?’ Kirsty asked, ‘We’ve still got a few eggs left.’

  ‘I don’t think I could stomach much but I’ll try,’ Dylan replied, and his womenfolk broke the embrace.

  It wasn’t long before Kirsty rustled up breakfast of eggs, beans and toast. They laid out a place for Lennon, called him but he never came. So they finished breakfast in relative peace and harmony. No awkwardness, no dirty jokes, just a normal family breakfast as the situation would allow.

  Afterwards Lennon came downstairs to an air of unease. Everybody avoided eye contact fearing each other’s awkward gazes. He said nothing, ignored the breakfast laid out for him and instead he snatched up the baseball bat from the table then rushed back through to the living room. Then they heard a jangle of keys being lifted and the living room door slam shut. Everybody immediately thought the worst. A heavy thump followed by a rain of smaller thumps resonated from the hallway.

  Dylan shot Kirsty a warning glance and jumped up, spilling his coffee as he knocked away the table. The living room door was shut, even as Dylan reached it and tried the handle he knew it would be locked. Lennon must have blocked it with the bookcase that stood in the hallway, bracing it against the stairs.

  ‘Lennon! What are you doing mate?’ Dylan called, banging on the door.

  ‘I’m getting out of here! You guys don’t want me, and I don’t want to be here trapped in this atmosphere. I can’t stand it! I’m off to get help.’

  ‘Len, there isn’t anybody else. It’s just us. Please, just stay here until this blows over,’ Dylan pleaded. On the other side of the door, the tinging sound of a screw hit the floor. Then another.

  ‘We both know that isn’t going to happen. We have to do something. Somebody has to do something. And that person’s going to be me.’

  ‘Lennon, don’t open that door. I’m warning you . . .’

  ‘Too late bro. I’ll be back soon. I’ll bring beer . . .’

  On the other side of the door, Dylan heard the clunk and click of the front door opening, then after a second of trepidation, it closed with a slackened bang.

  Bone, Hair, Teeth

  Whilst Dylan kicked and pounded at the hallway door, Kirsty and Lucy moved to the front window. All outside faces remained fixed on the young girl, staring mindlessly, vacant, empty. The essence of time sped up, whilst the feel of it seemed to slow to a treacle crawl. The gears of reality were moving too fast for their minds to comprehend. Their bodies allowed the adrenalin to gush freely into their bloodstreams to give them the ability to cope with what they were about to see.

  A crunching thud resonated from outside, something along the lines of a stiletto being stamped hard into the flesh of a watermelon, a quick, thick slurping sound. Kirsty and Lucy gasped, covering their mouths with their hands.

  ‘Oh my God! Dylan!’

  ‘What?’ asked Dylan wide-eyed, moving from the door and over to his wife’s side.

  ‘He’s killed one. Lennon killed somebody!’

  Dylan looked through the side pane of the bay window as a body fell back, a waterfall of fresh blood falling from the side of the man’s face. It had been a paramedic once, now a ghoulish mannequin felled by the toothy screw in the end of the baseball bat. Lennon stood on the front step of the house, his chest heaving a breath that threatened hyperventilation.

  Lennon swung, de-braining another member of the crowd, a sickening thud then a woman wearing a pretty floral dress slumped down onto the driveway beside Lennon, her blood jumping out of her in a spurting stream, ruining the delicate garment.

  ‘Tell him to stop!’ Lucy yelled a plea to her parents, banging violently on the window.

  ‘Len, get back inside now!’ Dylan screamed with a bite of his mouth as he fumbled with the window latch. Locked, no key! Kirsty had taken them out as a security precaution.

  Lennon launched the bat again, this time bringing it down atop the head of a boy no older than sixteen. The young lad shivered into a spasm as his skull was caved in, then dropped to the floor, a thick line of blood holding contact with the spike at the end of the bat as Lennon removed it from the boy’s bashed crown. His legs quivered as synapses in his brain were cruelly put out, struggling to realise that they’d been interrupted indefinitely in their control of his central nervous system.

  Dylan tried to catch Lennon’s eye, the maniacal glare impenetrable by the brotherly bond that was fading between them. Whether or not he chose to ignore him, Lennon had more pressing
matters to attend to.

  ‘Key! Now!’ Dylan barked at his wife. Kirsty span round and grabbed the key from off the mantelpiece, pressing it into her husband’s clammy hand. His fingers had started to shake as he fumbled the key into position. He found purchase, pushing the sliver of metal in with his thumb, flipped the lock up and pushed the window open onto the back of the still standing paramedic, who staggered forward within a few feet of Lennon. With the window fully open, the stench of the crowd hit Dylan fully. Sweat was underlying, as with any group of closely packed people it was a given. But other smells offended his olfactory sense. Urine, it stung his eyes, the overpowering stench of human waste as the various members of the crowd had evacuated their bowels whilst standing still.

  ‘Lennon, get back inside, NOW!’ Dylan boomed, reaching outside the window.

  His brother ignored this order; instead, he swung again with the bat, caving the head of Malcolm Jefferies, the retired milkman from five doors up. Mr Jefferies didn’t fall straight away, instead he staggered left, instinctively trying to hold himself up against the car bonnet; he sat there, then turned back to the window to gaze soullessly at Lucy. His head swayed and wobbled as his blood pressure dropped. A trickle of thick dark blood dribbled down his neck as he bled out from his right ear.

  ‘Lennon, please stop!’ Dylan pleaded, ‘you don’t have to do this!’

  Lennon ignored every word.

  Noticing the car keys wrapped around his little finger, Dylan now realised that his brother was cutting a path through to the car, batting violently through the mass of bodies.

  Lennon raised the bat up high, poised to swing, and then paused. A little girl before him had turned her head towards him, the only one of the crowd to break their gaze from Lucy voluntarily. She was dressed in a marigold coloured dressing gown and furry duck feet slippers. Tiny pink bows were interwoven and tied into tight bunches that sprouted like seedlings from the side of her head.

  Dylan, Kirsty and Lucy watched as Lennon’s face crumbled into tears. The sheer realisation of what he’d done had struck him like a bolt of lightning. He’d murdered fellow human beings in cold blood. Innocents, they’d caused no harm to hair on anyone’s head, shed no blood nor shown any sign of violence or malice. They’d just been in the way, threatening an invasion into the personal bubble. But there was no explanation for what was going on. No logical argument could explain the nature of this strange crowd. Lennon shook his head, tears melted through the freckles of blood on his cheeks as the futility of it all dawned on him. He dropped to his knees; the adapted screw-in-bat fell from his grasp, unable to roll away to freedom because of the spiky protrusion.