Starers
Page 15
The only thought in Lucy Keene’s reeling mind wasn’t of her dead uncle or her disabled father, or the fact her mother had tried to kill herself only minutes ago.
It was the ache. More than physical, it was like someone had stuck a hot needle into her soul and punctured her very being. Today was a day of change; she would never be the same again. Nobody would.
She blacked it out, thinking that old adage that people wonder when they find themselves in horrible, unthinkable situations.
Think Happy Thoughts. Think Happy Thoughts. Think Happy Thoughts . . .
Breaking out from the paralysis, Dylan concentrated his growing reach and began to pull and tug on the leg of the jogging bottoms. They caught on the decking screw, dragging the bat along. He grabbed the bat by the handle and with his strength exploding, swung it round, imbedding the rusty screw into the back of the Stranger’s ankle. They both let out a roar, one of sheer pain, one of delighted triumph.
The Stranger released his controlling grip of Lucy; the bizarre snake dripping with bright blood and sexual effluence slid out from between Lucy’s legs as she pulled free from his grasp and rolled sideward over the bonnet. Dylan twisted up and pulled the De-Brainer out from the Stranger’s Achilles heel. Thick, black blood seeped down his ankle and over his foot, hissing when it touched the driveway as it burnt away the life of clinging lichen and collected moss. The Stranger nearly fell down on his good leg before righting himself on the bonnet, trying to regain his stance.
‘You’re not going to let me finish in peace are you?’ The Stranger asked with a raised theatrical eyebrow.
‘Luce get in the car, we’re going for a drive,’ Dylan painfully called out to Lucy, pulling his eyes away from the thing that dangled like a fat, pink, eyeless snake. It righted itself, seemingly sniffing the air towards Lucy, hungry for her. She did as she was told, unlocking the car and climbing in, except she hopped across to the driver seat.
The Stranger turned to Lucy, teeth seething in a bitter grimace.
‘It’s me and you Lucy. We’re going to change the world together. Everything’s going to be different. We need to be a team for it to work though. I didn’t choose you. You’re just the one of many,’ he reasoned, as if he believed he was right, his gospel was the only way.
The Stranger turned back to Dylan and smiled oily, ‘you’re going nowhere. You’re going to die right here at this spot, it’s going to hurt; then I’m taking all my brides of this earth, as I always have done, millennia after millennia. You can’t stop me, not even when I’m in my earthly form. The brief fighting beat of the human heart isn’t enough for my cunning.’
Dylan shuffled back against the wall of his house then shifted towards the Loughery’s. He noticed that the crowd had stopped moving, they were giving him space. That was good. He shuffled again, maintaining his nervous posture. The Stranger took a step forward as well, as he continued his righteous speech.
‘. . . why must you people fight. Every time I come to the surface in one form or another, you always demand on settling arguments with war. And yet, you always lose in the end . . .’
Dylan shifted further back. From the corner of his eye, he saw his daughter nod then smile, baring her teeth as fear fixed upon her face. He nodded back.
‘. . . what you people call evil, always prevails in the end. Always. Good might last a while, but evil deeds scar longer and deeper. Far longer as you’re about to find out my friend, death will outlive life. My ways are forever . . .’
A weak cough came from the front doorway, which briefly shifted the Stranger’s attention away from Dylan. Kirsty’s hand peeked out from the doorway, fingers pulling her along the blood stained front step. The Stranger turned back to face the car as Lucy turned the key. His face slack and blank as if to say. What are you doing little girl?
‘Shut the fuck up!’ Lucy screamed through the glass. The Corsa engine choked, and then roared as the gears grinded. Dylan lifted his legs up and rolled backward over his aching shoulders as the car jumped forward. The front bumper punching with a tonne of metal violence into the Stranger’s legs, pushing him down beneath the bumper, pinning the back of his knees to the front of the house with a pounding snap, drowned out by the tremendous growl of the engine and collision of metal unto brick and bone. It seemed that his earthly vessel that he carried himself in had the capacity for pain, the blood freezing scream testament to this fact.
He scowled and screamed at Lucy’s betrayal, fists banging and hammering violently on the bonnet of the Corsa. His overly long nails scraped the paint off in eight desperate and jagged lines with a knife on ceramic shriek. He was trapped and he feared it. With the mere blink of his wide eyes, the crowd stepped forward, arms outstretched. While they carried out his orders, he failed to notice Dylan’s rapid actions, who offered no remorse for this vile other worldly creature. Good was programmed to fight evil no matter what the odds. It was a genetic code that predispositions us to fight the good fight. Some men were cowards, but Dylan Keene did not possess that detrimental trait. He had a family. He had to be a hero for them, like all good fathers and husbands; he would fight for his family until the last drop of blood had been drained from his staggering being. All it took for evil to prevail was for good men to do nothing. All it takes for chaos to reign is for order to fail.
With teeth bared, Lucy revved the engine into the red. The tyres squealed as the car pushed harder and harder into the stranger and the wall. Acrid smoke poured out from the wheel arches. She held it well, the worry that she’d stall it hung over Dylan.
‘Stay away from my family . . . you dirty . . . old . . . bastard!’ Dylan spat, then swung out hard, aiming for the head this time, as Dylan was confident that no true heart existed within the confines of its dark chest, only a mockery of a muscle.
The already blood-stained screw impacted with the stranger’s forehead, burrowing in to the hilt, knocking him back with a neck-snapping lurch. His skull opened up with a coconut cracking satisfaction. The Stranger ceased his screaming fit; a brief, gargling, choking sound escaped his throat, clicking away the final seconds of his life. Then he slumped forward, the bat still embedded firmly in his skull pointed towards three o’clock.
The crowd stopped their advance. All at once the unmanageable thousands surrounding the Keene household all collapsed limply in unison to the ground, their weakened bodies crumpling under their own weight. The soft thump that followed came as a sweetly toned resonance to their ears.
The roaring engine ceased, quieting down to a now steaming hiss and purr.
The crackle of the crowd ceased, the static hum cut off abrupt and definite, yet somehow Dylan’s mind carried on the soundtrack, repeating a tinnitus loop.
The torrential rain stopped, the operatic rushing drum of the leaden raindrops left their senses as abruptly as they’d come into them.
A steel giant groaned from across the road. Dylan watched as the bus that had sat outside his house full of festering passengers for the last few days, set into motion and began to roll down the road, the driver now comatose and unaware. The 815 bus to Abcastle resumed its run that had become stalled by events beyond the control of the bus timetable, heading down Westfield road systematically crunching idle pedestrians beneath its unrelenting weight.
Lucy climbed out from the car and rushed around to be with her father, threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, hurting his broken ribs, but in a good way. The pain was good; it meant he was alive, breathing and kicking. He spat out a bright spit of blood.
‘I love you, Dad, thank you.’
‘I know you do. I’m glad you remembered your driving lessons on the airfield.’ She held him tighter; lesson accomplished.
Over And Over And Over
The De-Brainer Bat fell off the steaming bonnet with a tinny thump. Dylan and Lucy watched as black oil flowed out from the stranger’s eyes, mouth and the crevice in his forehead. Thick rivulets slimed over the bonnet, pushing stranded droplets of water from off
the car.
The Stranger’s head began to deflate as all liquid escaped the body, until it was a tanned sack of skin. The skin creased, then mottled like time-lapse footage of a diseased leaf. It broke apart before Dylan Keene’s eyes. Flakes of skin floated gently away on the river of black, travelling like flotsam over rapids as they were carried away down the Corsa’s front wing and onto the rain-dampened driveway, the black hissed and seethed as it drained away.
Within a few more seconds, his entire body had deliquesced into an oily puddle beneath the car, seeping through the spaces in the block paving; all that physically remained of the stranger was the tattered coat of faces lying crumpled on the bonnet of the car.
The Stranger left their lives as he had come into it, grisly and weird, and with no mortal or earthly explanation.
It had ended. It was over.
A creak came from the front door, they both looked over. Kirsty Keene had crawled to the porch steps. Weak and drenched in perspiration, she was still alive. The impromptu stomach pump had saved her life and what was left of her sanity. She held a pale and shaking hand towards them, beckoning them over. Without hesitation, they rushed around the car avoiding the dark puddle that sizzled away the lichen, moss and anything unfortunate to be in its path, joining the matriarch of their family. Crouching down beside her, they cradled her weakened form in their arms.
‘What happened?’ her voice was as delicate as a fine petal, easily crushed by a bitter and cruel wind. They all embraced, wrapping arms around one another.
‘It’s over; fixed it, don’t worry no more. We’re safe.’ He kissed her head, the sweat tasted fucking marvellous. The dead don’t sweat. His babies were alive. He was alive. The surging sense of joy was like nothing he had felt before, a euphoric paroxysm of delight, better than any illicit drug, any joyous song or any pleasure for that matter. His family was alive. He was alive. They’d made it.
‘I’m sorry Dylan . . . I . . .’
‘Shhh, no more, you’re weak, it’s okay, just rest, we’ll fix you up.’
Dylan looked down at the browning and blackened remains of his brother. He was nothing more than a voided and empty vessel now. A memory of a good man remains. Despite his impediments of character, Lennon had been an excellent brother, sticking with Dylan throughout their lives; they had rarely fought as children and had always remained firm friends. Dylan had the feeling that if he and Kirsty had another child, a boy, he already knew what he would name him.
Some of the crowd started to stir, drunkenly sitting up. They looked around bewildered with the situation; a few looked curiously towards the trio of Keenes for answers.
‘We’ll have to fix them all up.’
For this moment was theirs. They embraced, holding each other as much as their various pains would allow. Happiness reigned as the first sunset of many melted away the troubles of the black day. The fading warmth on their faces as the celestial bulb blast its final glowing of the day upon them.
The family Keene looked into each other’s eyes and smiled. Kirsty’s were half open, still drowsy from her attempted overdose, Dylan’s were bound closed in contentment, dreaming of a new life, a better life, a move away, a new career, anything to break from the norm he had burrowed himself into.
Lucy’s eyes were a beautiful baby blue.
She blinked; they were now an electric sea green.
Another blink. Then they were red.
This was her world, she wouldn’t be a bride, but she could be something else. A leader the world hadn’t seen before. This world was hers for the taking. The Stranger had known this; it was why she was one of a chosen few of the right mindset.
Then her eyes were brown, as they always would be.
One of the Starers close by sat up. His skin was charred and raw, his eyes black.
Dylan looked behind him as another sat up in the centre of the burnt front lawn, an elderly woman, another set of black eyes. Then another sat up, then another. All staring at Lucy.
Something slithered through the wet grass, something oily, black and ominous. It moved as a collection of mindful black droplets that had escaped through the cracks of the drive, splitting into individuals, slipping like black tears into the eyes and into the taken minds of the Starers. The ominous black oil should have trickled away into the caverns beneath the earth, to form and plan further atrocities; but instead it seemed, it still had business to attend to. This messenger from below wasn’t done delivering his sermon just yet. Lessons had to learnt, a greater hell would be unleashed. Revenge was to be had.
One by one, they stood up over the trio. Celeste Marks stood up, bloody and black. More black-eyed Starers joined the standing crowd. More stood up and upon the broken and beaten Dylan, Kirsty and Lucy, they advanced.
One as many, many as one.
Lucy screamed. They all screamed.
It was far from over; in fact it wasn’t even the beginning.
Dylan didn’t fully understand this new evil, he hadn’t the time. There wasn’t time for questions, only action.
With a groan and a weary sigh, Dylan Keene snatched the De-Brainer bat from the blood splattered driveway. He stood up with a lumbering stagger, winced once from the pain that plagued his body, pulled back his aching arms and swung out, smashing the skull of the nearest Starer. The young man’s head snapped to the side, his neck bent at harsh angle as he tumbled to the floor. He launched again, stopping himself too late as he caught Lucy’s friend Poppy on the jaw. The young girl stumbled back, her darkening eyes cast towards the sky.
Lucy screamed and reached out for her friend who lay bleeding on the driveway.
‘It isn’t her Luce! Get in the car. Something’s happening.’
Lucy hesitated, watching as her father indiscriminately hit another Starer with the bat. The world was wrong. Everything was wrong.
Dylan brought the De-Brainer bat down upon the crown of Martin Travis, the Keene’s former milkman. The pensioner dropped to his knees. Dylan pulled on the bat, grimacing at the horrific act he’d just committed. The screw was stuck within the confines of Martin Travis’s skull. With a quick debate of caution, Dylan kicked out at the kneeling man’s shoulder and pulled back on the bat. The screw popped free and Dylan had his Excalibur once more.
Lucy helped her mother to her feet, shuffling towards the driver’s door. Kirsty Keene started to shake off her daughter’s grip. Not from protest, but from her nerves trembling. Lucy was unsure of whether it was the attempted drugs overdose or the fear of death that caused her to quake so violently.
Behind them, more black-eyed Starers stood up and advanced with an agonisingly slow approach as their minds were realigned and taken from them once again. Dylan cracked the heads of three more with quick succession. Bambi-legged, Poppy Smith got back on her feet, her jaw twisted out at an undesirable angle. A fresh, red flow of bloody spittle surged from her broken mouth as a cascade of crimson syrup.
Lucy pushed her impaired mother through the open driver’s door and onto the passenger seat, where she slumped down, her knees buckling into the foot well. Lucy climbed between the seats into the back and called out for her father, her voice still broken from her ordeal.
‘Dad! Get in!’
Dylan Keene turned. In one leaping moment he bounded into the Corsa and tossed the bat across to the passenger seat. Turning the key, and kicking the clutch the engine roared like a dying iron beast. A deep, mechanical clicking resonated from beneath the bonnet, pissing further on Dylan’s bonfire. The crash against the house had dislodged something vital within the engine.
‘Lock the doors. We can’t let them in.’
The fuel gauge tickled red. They’d get out, but they wouldn’t get far. The Starers closed in around the car as Dylan slammed it into reverse and released the clutch, revving as far as he’d dare without blowing up the engine. Bodies thumped against the bumper as the Corsa edged them out of the way. With a squeal of the tyres, Dylan backed out onto Westfield Road. More Starers bumped
off the bodywork, staggering back, unfazed by the push they’d received. They stared in with oil black eyes. A chorus hands began to slap against the windows, mindless fingers waking up searching for a way in. They could just as easily smash the glass to get in. Maybe that synapse of knowledge hadn’t been formed yet.
A trail had been cleared by the bus rolling down Westfield Road. Dylan gave a smile. They had a runway. They could get speed up and maybe break through. They had a chance.
Without further thought he slipped the Corsa into first and gunned the engine, they jumped forward, knocking over through a sparse crowd that gazed in over the bonnet.
Their speed increased, hitting thirty, forty, fifty. They hit a body on the road. The car didn’t rock as much as he thought it would. Kristy was crying. She’d compressed down into the foot well, wrapping herself into a shaking ball of anguish and fear.
Dylan felt something stab his shoulder. With a snap of his head he glanced back. His daughter dug his nails into his shoulder, her bony knuckles deathly white. He understood why.
They reached the end of the makeshift runway. They passed the bus which had mounted the kerb coming to rest kissing the trunk of an oak tree. Dylan saw the driver’s eyes. They were black.
Instinct told him to hit the horn. He didn’t.
They ploughed into the crowd of people at eighty-seven miles an hour. Bodies thumped upon the Corsa, heavy as a rain of mercury and a deeper red. The windscreen cracked as more skulls and limbs thumped upon the glass. He kept his foot down and clicked the wipers on, spraying washer fluid to dilute the gore. Their vision became awash with a watery crimson, sinking them into an arterial sea. Every single body a sickening speed bump at the rate they travelled. A double thump repeated as they passed beneath both tyres with a ghastly, haunting pop.