Starers

by Nathan Robinson

  Standing on the ladder, he could see a river of black cloud sweeping above the house. The wind had picked up since he’d retired to bed, now the northerly breeze stirred up the weather, creating the storm that now raged around his house. Splatters of rain dropped freely into the attic space, a large patch of insulation was soaked through, as were the nearby timbers. This was all his own doing and if he didn’t do something about it, the ceiling would soon cave in on his family’s heads with the soaking weight of the water.

  Dylan descended and headed downstairs to the kitchen, where in the darkness and from memory, he dug out bin liners and duct tape from one of the drawers. Then he remembered he had the torch and clicked it on, keeping the beam low to the floor.

  He stopped in the living room and viewed the dark crowd that waited outside. The Starers. All heads were slightly raised towards the sky, in truth it was his daughter that their obsessive gaze fixated on.

  Lightning cracked over a distant field, briefly illuminating the crowd from behind. In unison, their eyes showed the briefest flash of blue/green. When the lightning disintegrated, the crowd’s eyes returned to normal. Black and hiding in the safety of their collective shadow. Dylan shivered, except this time it wasn’t the chilled air that unnerved him.

  He headed back up to the attic and climbed into the space; knees aching and creaking in unison with the ply board that decked out the floor of the loft. Dylan looked up into the night sky, he dared not stick his head out the hole for two simple reasons; the fear of a lightning strike across his forehead and the continuing gaze of the Starers down below was enough to give him nightmares. Their mass of gathered faces, illuminated by the thick gloom of night was bad enough for the imagination, let alone reality.

  Perched on his knees, Dylan ripped off a bin liner and tucked it into the space between the roof timbers and tiles. The wind grabbed at it, flapping the polythene like a plastic bird in the midst of a death spasm.

  Grimacing from the burgeoning rain, Dylan tore off another bin liner and tucked it into the lower portion of the hole. Quickly as he could, he tore off a length of duct tape and gently sealed the gap. He used more duct tape to secure the underneath and voilà! The hole was closed. Dylan smiled, even though he had created the task by his own wrongdoing, he was pleased with what he had accomplished considering the circumstances.

  ‘Dylan!’ a voice hissed from below.

  ‘What?’ he hissed back.

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Fixing a hole.’

  Kirsty’s head and shoulders appeared through the loft opening. She held a tea-light on the side of a plate in one hand. As she came up through the opening, Dylan couldn’t help but notice her nipples poking hard through the old skinny t-shirt she wore for bed. The penetrating rain had soaked her through as she’d lain beside him. Her hair was wet and plastered back, giving her a wide-eyed, rabbit like gaze, the torchlight glinting against the fearful whites of her eyes. A smile curled up from her cool lips.

  He averted his gaze to her eyes.

  ‘I thought you’d pissed the bed.’

  ‘I wish I had. We’ll have to change the sheets now.’

  ‘No great shakes; you coming back to bed?’ she asked, placing the tea-light on the ply board as she crawled gingerly into the loft space.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve . . . err . . . made a mess of the roof, we had water pouring in.’

  ‘I told you so. Dickhead.’

  ‘I’m sorry, a moment of madness,’ he apologised meekly.

  ‘We all have them.’

  ‘I’ll get it fixed.’

  ‘I don’t think it matters anymore, do you?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted, trying to hold her steely gaze, but he couldn’t, he was too honest. They both knew life would be over soon, a strange knowing between them told them this. They’d both accepted that death awaited them. The only question was how. Their unsaid words said it all.

  ‘Is the world over?’ Kirsty whispered.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t want it to be.’

  ‘Me too. I feel . . . strange . . . sort of content. It’s weird, like, even though the world’s gone to shit, I’m happy I’m spending it with my family. I know things haven’t been great, but I’m happy for what I’ve had. No family is perfect; we’ve all got our creases.’

  ‘You sound like you’re giving your own eulogy.’

  Kirsty smiled and placed the tea-light down near the opening. Moving onto all fours, she crept towards him, her head bowed to one side, stalking him cat like. She gave her head a nod towards a patched portion of the roof he’d fixed.

  ‘Would you like to fix another hole?’ Kirsty breathed coyly, slinking closer.

  ‘You didn’t just say that did you? It was cheesy, you don’t do cheese. Besides, you never instigate. Ever.’

  ‘I did, and I want it,’ she purred.

  Usually it was him that did the chasing when it came to amorous attentions. Only if she was drunk or the week before her period did she ever show him any hint of sexual advances. This was a rarity. Kirsty sidled up to him and kissed his cheek. He dropped the torch; it fell away from his fingers, and rolled across the ply, settling into a bed of insulation.

  ‘What about Lucy?’

  ‘She’s fast on. I never knew she snored.’ Kirsty gave a devilish smile, kissing him again, wetter this time. He tasted her toothpaste on his tongue.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I want you, now!’ she raised her voice a little, not in volume but in intensity, speaking from the depths of her diaphragm.

  ‘Shall we go downstairs?’ he kissed her on the cheek then moved to her lips as he felt a stirring within himself. ‘The sofa . . . ?’

  ‘No . . . here,’ she gasped as his lips played gentle kisses on the nape of her neck, ‘now!’

  ‘But . . . why?’ he asked, then felt stupid about even questioning such an offer.

  ‘The world . . . it’s over. I don’t want to be alone. I . . . need it just once more. That’ll see me through. I don’t want to be alone . . . just once. Please . . .’

  ‘You think it’s ended? Humanity? You really think it’s all over for us?’ he asked, pausing from the kisses. She continued nibbling his ears.

  ‘Maybe, but just to be on the safe side. Give it to me Dyl. I need something. I need to feel something other than this horrible fear of whatever comes next. Don’t argue.’

  He took her fully on the lips, moving his hand behind her head. He ran his fingers into her hair, stroked her back, across her shoulders and down the length of her arm. They played with each other’s fingers, tips dancing against one another, held hands then tried to find a position that suited the awkwardness of the situation. Standing up wasn’t an option as the roof was too low (unless he stuck his head out of the hole in the roof like a tank commander). The ply board was too hard on their knees for any prolonged vigorous action, so they settled on a spoon position with her head resting on his arm whilst he embraced her with the other. With a tug, he pulled down his jogging bottoms to his knees, with another tug, Kirsty’s bedtime shorts were in the same position.

  She was already wet when he entered her, guiding him in by touch and the scattered dancing glows of the tea-light which cast their conjoined shadows on the belly of the roof behind them.

  With the storm raging above, their daughter sleeping below, and the thousands upon thousands of strangers waiting outside for them, they shuffled together on the grainy dirt and wet wood of the attic, rutting like the doomed rare beasts that they had become. Roof spiders watched on with arachnid contempt, skittering triumphantly into their hidey-holes until their trespassers had completed their last rituals and left their domain in tidy peace.

  They both finished quickly and contentedly. Whilst in the throes of a post-orgasmic tide, Kirsty whispered in his ear, ‘I’m pregnant.’

  Dylan couldn’t comment positively about the future, nor could he doom the potential life to a dark, unknown void. No words could be formed in his mind as th
ey both drifted away to a thankfully dreamless slumber. Dylan said nothing, him holding her tighter was answer enough, embracing until they were both falling asleep in a jumble of goose-pimpled arms and legs, remaining fixed in that cosy and content position, watching the tea-light die its fading death, until the sweet, inquisitive hum of dawn awoke them. In a way, she was happy he’d said nothing. She’d told him. It was enough that he knew. Given any other circumstance she knew he’d be happy. If and when they got out of this mess, they’d talk about it some more.

  If and when.

  If and when.

  ***

  ‘Mum, Dad? Are you up there?’

  Dylan’s eyes peeled open, his arm was dead; his hip ached a stabbing sore as he began to move, making him feel old and useless, which he wasn’t. Not yet. Kirsty stirred at the same time; she turned and looked at him, smiling sleepily as the last memory of last night came back to her. Was today bin day? He’d forgotten to put the bins out last night. Was it past seven? Damn.

  Dylan smiled back at his wife and said, ‘Lucy.’

  The smiles faded and Kirsty pulled away from him, their coital secretions bonding them together in places with a dry, abrupt stickiness that pinched at their close skin. Dylan winced as he moved his legs, chafing his buttocks on the dusty ply and he pulled up his joggers to his hips. He needed reminding of why they’d slept in the attic. Kirsty adjusted herself and poked her head down through the loft opening.

  ‘What is it sweetie?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘What’cha doin up there?’

  ‘Just fixing this dammed hole that your dad made, we’ve had rain pouring in all night.’

  ‘I’ve been awake an hour, what have you two been doing?’ a direct, probing insinuation; more than just a simple question from his curious daughter.

  ‘Say Luce?’ Dylan said, ‘see if we’ve still got any gas, I could do with a coffee.’

  ‘Will do Daaad,’ Lucy chirped, then headed downstairs, causing a commotion with pots and pans.

  ‘You think she believed us?’ Kirsty turned and asked with a guilty smile.

  ‘Not for a second.’

  Kirsty gave a childish snigger then crawled forward, kissing her husband on the lips.

  ‘You gonna have a shave today? You’re getting a beard again. I’ve got a rash on my neck from you nuzzling me.’

  ‘I’d rather save the water now.’

  Kirsty bit her lip, looked down coyly and then back at him. ‘Was last night okay?’

  ‘The best,’ he said without a beat. He reached out and stroked her arm.

  ‘I suppose that counts for something, at least we’ll die happy that we still loved each other.’

  ‘Hey, we’re not dead yet, so don’t even think like that. As long as we’re alive, we’ve got a chance. You have to believe that. It’s not over until it’s over.’

  ‘I know. It just seems a chore to go downstairs and face them.’

  ‘How about we keep the curtain shut, try and have a normal morning. Maybe play a board game or something?’

  She smiled, ‘You’re shitting me? Lennon will piss his pants when he hears that!’ Kirsty shook her head in disbelief at her husband’s suggestion, but her expression dropped away in realisation at what she had said. She raised her hand over her mouth in vain effort to stop the words that had already left her lips.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry Dyly . . . I didn’t mean . . .’ she tried to apologise.

  ‘It doesn’t matter Kirst, don’t worry about it. I’ve forgotten a few times myself.’

  ‘I know he wasn’t the most perfect brother to you, but we still loved him didn’t we?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dyly. Grief does funny things to your mind. I still don’t believe it. What do we do? I don’t want to just leave him out there.’

  ‘Much as I want to, there’s nothing we can do. So try not to think about it. Let’s just head downstairs and try and rustle up some breakfast.’

  Kirsty nodded, smiled and held back the threat of tears. Then she descended the loft ladders and made her way downstairs.

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

  Dylan looked up. The bin bags he’d used to bung the hole in the roof hadn’t lasted the night, now fresh, clear sun light filtered through the broken void. He stood, cracking his feet, popping his knees. Reluctant, he stuck his head through the roof hole. Golden early sun warmed his cheeks. The storm had cleared the air, refreshing the ozone; the blue skies promised a bright, clear day.

  The Starers had been washed, though cleaner than the festering mass they were yesterday, now they looked bedraggled. Hair was either plastered to foreheads or puffed up as beautifying conditioners had been washed away with the night’s storm. They looked wild. Dylan bent down and picked up the green binoculars he’d left in the attic and put them to his eyes to observe the morning crowd closer.

  There was no end to them, just a continuing mass of strange plain faces staring back at him. More than a few looked emaciated as their bodies burnt away fat reserves to survive. He swung over to the circle of bodies in the field. Digging through the night, they had made progress amongst the sharp skeletons of wreckage from the plane. Those digging within the pit he couldn’t see, for they were hidden by the deepening depths of the crater and the mounting mounds of soil that had built up around the circumference of the hole.

  They were digging by hand, taking a clump in their hands, taking it to the end then dumping it at the edges. Then they’d return to their spot and take another handful.

  Rinse and repeat.

  They were like ants or worker bees, a hive mind concerned and concentrating on completing a single, main purpose

  Dig.

  The Diggers and The Starers. Whatever next?

  Others had joined the edge of the amateur quarry, now bent over on hands and knees, pulling the gathered soil back behind to level it out, working as a tight ship to avoid the sides collapsing in on top of those in the pit.

  Narrowing his gaze, Dylan could make out that some had blood dripping from their hands from where their searching fingers had collided with a hidden rock or stone, breaking nails and scoring skin in the process. He paid more attention to their hands. Some of the diggers had tips of dirty white showing beneath the mud and the blood.

  Bone; Dylan thought. They’re working their fingers to the bone. Yet, they carried on painless and without complaint, tendons and sinew holding their tender bones together, the only thing that stopped their hands from falling apart; a grisly, perfect workforce that any regime would be proud to enslave.

  Dylan shuddered and ducked back into the attic. A vile yet empty sickness churned away inside of him. He put the binoculars down and picked up the torch he had dropped last night. The bulb had faded to dull glow, the battery flattened by lust and forgetfulness. Dropping into a sex induced sleep, he had forgotten to turn off the torch, wasting the batteries.

  While Dylan worried about saving energy, a new concern became apparent to his senses that made his head jerk so fast it jarred his neck.

  A scream from downstairs.

  Spilt

  They still had live gas. The flaming ring sssssss’d and burnt away the North Sea’s finest by-product.

  Pots and pans were scattered all over the floor, as was the water they once contained. Kirsty was in the corner of the kitchen by the twirly cupboard, crouched low, her forehead bleeding. Lucy had a pan in her hand and was holding it aloft in her hands whilst screaming at her mother.

  ‘What the hell’s going on down here?’ Dylan barked at them both.

  Lucy turned to face him, her brow furrowed in anger ‘You should have known better. You’re animals, the pair of you!’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about Luce?’ Dylan intervened.

  ‘I asked Mum what you two got up to in that loft. She told me. Can’t you have a little bit of respect? Uncle Lennon is dead and all you two want to do is fuck!’

  ‘Lucy!’ Dylan protested at her shocking f
oul language. She didn’t look like she cared in the slightest.

  ‘No, shut up!’ Lucy raised a bread knife and pointed it at her father. It was the first time he noticed it. He felt his muscles automatically tense at the sight of the blade.

  ‘She threw the pan at me,’ Kirsty whimpered from the corner. The happy, content face that he’d woken up this morning had been replaced by one of pure primal fear. Her eyes where shockingly wide; lips tight with concern.

  ‘You’re supposed to be thinking of a way out of this! Not screwing each other’s brains out.’ Lucy’s gaze bore a burning petulance into her father’s eyes. They had the same eyes, they were equals. Dylan’s returned stare didn’t falter. He was worried for his daughter; but he wasn’t scared of her or what she could do.

  ‘Listen here, missy!’ Dylan raised his finger and his voice to his daughter, ‘We’re married, that means we can want each other whenever we see fit. It’s none of your damned business. Your mother needed me last night and I needed her. You have to understand that Luce . . .’

  ‘I only told her that we’d made love. It’s what married people do, you probably don’t want to imagine your father and I together but it happens, you don’t need to make a big deal out of it.’

  ‘I know it happens, when I sleep over at a friend’s house, I guessed that you jumped on each other straight away, but not while I’m here. It’s gross.’ Lucy waved the blade casually. From the look on her face she didn’t even realise that she had the knife in her hand and was terrifying her parents with her unjust actions.

  ‘Luce listen, this was different. Your mum was worried last night. The way things are going, she thought that we’d never have a chance to be together again . . . in that way.’

  ‘I don’t care! You should have some self-control, for Christ sake, you’re old enough!’ She jabbed the knife in the direction of Dylan’s stomach. He tensed, preparing himself to fight his first born. She had a wild glaze to her eyes. He remembered her dream, wondering if she was fully aware that she was becoming dangerously close to seeing her prediction come true. He felt like grabbing his petulant daughter by the throat and screaming some sense into her face. This thought lingered for a second, then he regained control of the rash animal that made all the bad decisions, stopping it from barking back, he kept the leash on tight, reining it in.