Ferine Apocalypse (Novella): 4 Hours

by John F. Leonard

  The manic anger had gone out of his eyes and so had the near catatonia that had briefly replaced it. Now there was a bewildered pain that was only partly due to the bite wound.

  Pearcey held him at arm’s length and gently shook him.

  “I’ll find something to cover her with, but we have to go Sonny.”

  Gallagher stepped away and looked back at her.

  “I need to clean and dress this. There’s stuff in the bathroom.”

  He indicated his neck and shoulder. Tone dead and defeated.

  Walked out of the room as if his legs were scarcely able to support his weight.

  Pearcey found a duvet and laid it over Anne.

  Stood there chewing his lip and counting the seconds.

  Counting the cost.

  Their time was nearly up.

  Wayne Raylens deadline and the target that he’d set himself to beat the sun going down.

  Four hours should have been enough but his thinking had been flawed. Employing old methods of calculation. Relying on judgement based on ignorance.

  Life had changed in the space of a few days.

  Taking things for granted had always held the likelihood of getting you into trouble somewhere down the line.

  Now the consequences would be lethal.

  Pearcey cursed himself again.

  Cursed himself for disregarding his own instinct.

  Ignoring the misgivings that he’d felt when he was volunteered and had gone along with it.

  The reservations had resurfaced when they reached ground level above the CIMC shelter. But he’d ignored them.

  Fools are bad enough. Old fools are insufferable.

  <><><>

  The muted pop pop sound of gunfire interrupted his reverie. Stopped that journey of self-recrimination in its tracks.

  It was a gun.

  He was sure of that. The noise dulled by distance and obstruction.

  But a gun nevertheless.

  A rifle.

  Maybe a SA80. How many of them would there be around Lancaster Court at this particular juncture in time.

  “Oh fuck, what now.”

  Pearcey ran to the bathroom and found it empty. Stumbled through the apartment like some big bumbling clown.

  Slamming into doors and bouncing off walls.

  Gallagher was in a bedroom. Pulling on a new shirt.

  “We’re going.

  Now.

  Follow me or stay here Sonny. I’m not waiting for you. Something got fucked up and we have zero time.”

  <><><>

  They ran from Lancaster Court.

  Pearcey pausing and pulling Gallagher with him. The man was useless.

  Worn out and floundering.

  He fought the urge to rail at Sonny. Shout and scream at him to get the piano off his back and shift his arse before their last hopes sank with the sun.

  If he’d not followed, Pearcey might have left him, but Sonny was willing.

  Just damaged.

  <><><>

  They staggered to the garage block.

  Gallagher a stumbling burden.

  Pearcey was expecting the mutated things to be massing at the noise of the gun.

  There were very few. The ones that he saw were running.

  Escaping.

  Just like he wanted to do.

  Escape the horror and the responsibility that would destroy him. Find somewhere safe to fix himself and figure out how to continue.

  The creatures weren’t interested in meat or hunting. They were too busy fleeing the flames. Raylens had been right. They ran from the fire.

  And the fire had gotten closer.

  Now that he and Sonny were outside he could hear it. The subdued roar of approaching conflagration.

  The buildings around Lancaster Court were smouldering. Heat radiating across the grass.

  About to ignite.

  Smoke beginning to tinge the air. Roiling in lazy drifts.

  Dirty and awful.

  A taste at the back of the throat. Acrid and unpleasant. The taste of civilisation burning. The tang of the things ending.

  There was a muffled boom that made them both duck and cringe. Something heated to the explosive point.

  Pearcey vaguely wondered if the fire would engulf Lancaster Court. Turn it into a funeral pyre for Annie Gallagher. Along with whatever else was still contained within its walls.

  The dead and living. Those that were resistant to the mutation and those that were no longer human.

  <><><>

  They were at Gallagher’s lock-up before Pearcey realised there was something wrong.

  That was no surprise. No surprise that he was distracted. It was a blind dash.

  Under fire in a hostile environment.

  Deal with what was close and just get the fuck out.

  No wonder that he virtually fell upon the situation before being able to assess it from a distance.

  There were no creatures. No immediate threat.

  That wouldn’t last.

  They could appear from nowhere.

  Swarm like insects or spring from a shadow. He’d learned that much if nothing else in their short foray into the new world.

  Wayne Raylens had opened the shutter and moved the pick-up into the driveway. The shutter was still open.

  Neither of those things were any great shakes.

  It was the corpse that captured his attention.

  <><><>

  There was a body by the car.

  Knife protruding from the centre of his chest.

  A kitchen knife, one of those long things. Cheap and cheerful, but sturdy enough and as sharp as you like.

  Pearcey tried to compute it.

  Failed.

  The body was Raylens.

  Weird and not so wonderful Wayne Raylens. The new acquaintance that he felt like he’d known too long. The man in the mask. The bayonet wielding, gun toting nutjob.

  Splayed out like a sacrifice by the side of their ride home.

  Spread-eagled and as dead as yesterday’s news.

  The gun was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Angela Gacek.

  He approached the car without caution.

  The time for caution was gone.

  Whatever would happen now was going to happen. He was running on empty and Gallagher looked like he’d aged twenty years in the last twenty minutes.

  The world was burning and the night was falling.

  <><><>

  The driver’s door was open.

  Pearcey glanced inside and saw the keys dangling from the ignition.

  A sense of relief should have surged through him, but he almost didn’t care.

  He felt numb.

  Battered and bruised. A deep weariness that was only partly due to his physical condition.

  A piece of paper lay on the driver’s seat. Dark smears on it that were maroon black in the dying light.

  He was pretty sure that it was blood. Those drying smears.

  The smudged prints of fingers dipped in blood.

  Pearcey picked up the note and studied it.

  Shook his head and nearly smiled.

  The smile didn’t quite make it.

  he was a bad man

  a monster

  the worst kind

  AG

  He’d got it wrong yet again.

  Wayne Raylens may well have been crazy.

  He was definitely scary.

  And dangerous.

  Quite possibly certifiable.

  Angela Gacek was scarier still.

  Chapter 19

  Shelter

  Pearcey was still holding the note when Gallagher tugged at his sleeve.

  Like some old man pestering at his elbow.

  Pearcey was exhausted, as if his plug had been pulled and the back-up battery was drained, but he hoped to God that he looked better than Sonny.

  His friend reminded him of those archive shots of concentration camp victims.

  Haunted and frail.

  Hope
less.

  Gallagher gestured to the end of the alley between the garages.

  There were ghostly figures milling in the gloom. Subtle orange highlights glinting from huge teeth and hairless heads.

  “Get in the car.”

  Pearcey pushed Gallagher toward the passenger side. Then paused as he considered the creatures flickering in the twilight. Unsure whether they were gathering to attack or something else. Pursuing some other unfathomable end that only they would ever know.

  Wayne Raylens had been right in some respects.

  They were alien.

  Not necessarily beamed down from another planet, but things that were beyond human comprehension.

  He shifted his attention to Raylens.

  Considered removing the mask.

  Just to see Wayne Raylens true face.

  Shook his head and climbed into the cab of the pick-up.

  Gentled the door closed.

  He’d leave Wayne with the dignity of his anonymity. It didn’t matter, whatever Wayne Raylens had been was gone now.

  Along with so much else.

  <><><>

  The return to the Central Interim Management Complex, the bunker beneath, the extraordinary nestled below the everyday, passed in a blur of desperation.

  Pearcey’s survival instinct overcame his age and fatigue.

  He was getting long in the tooth, but still a capable operative, a halfway decent bodyguard. It was just that his heart had stopped being in it long before the collapse event.

  He’d lucked into the job and bluffed his way through. His appearance was intimidating. When the need arose, he was clever enough to say the right words.

  The truth was, he didn’t give a fuck.

  Didn’t keep up with anything current.

  Didn’t bother with the training courses.

  Winged it and made friends with people of influence.

  That was easy in Westminster. That was life. That was all part of the game. The fact that he was lower down the ladder, a functionary, was immaterial. You could walk your way through all of that shit if you had confidence and a bit of nouse.

  Pearcey had both.

  But by that point, he was more interested in literature and drinking Bourbon. Contemplating the finer things and realising the beauty. Back in the day he’d been badass, but days passed.

  <><><>

  In most ways, the Toyota pick-up was more suitable than the Jaguar. Higher off the ground and a hell of a lot blunter. A bull-nosed chunk of metal that enabled him to be bolder.

  The fact that Gallagher had a cover on the truck bed was a bonus. That reduced the risk of the creatures being able to hitch a ride.

  He still had to be careful. It wasn’t a tank. He couldn’t roll over the bodies if they became too dense and piled up underneath the wheels.

  Those strange bodies.

  Hard and corded and savage.

  Predators that were once human and were more than animal.

  Blood and broken metal and the sky blackening.

  Parts of the vehicle dropping away with their progress. That was all that mattered at that stage.

  Progress.

  The cost mounted and his speed increased. The sprint to the shelter was a nightmare that he endured. Gritted his teeth and chewed his lip and laughed at times.

  Attempting a mental balance that would ensure success but might destroy him.

  Pearcey had missed his target of four hours.

  It didn’t matter.

  It was useless to think about it.

  Failure and success were the same story.

  <><><>

  They left the wrecked pick-up in the street.

  It was barely running.

  Pearcey thought it might never start again.

  When they entered the shelter hub, they were thronged. People swarming them like the creatures above.

  Weak tea laced with whiskey.

  Swallowed too quickly.

  Inadequate explanations to stupid questions.

  Gallagher was silent.

  Wasted and speechless. After a while, he whispered that he was going to check his maintenance stuff and sleep. Make sure that the fans were running, the water flowing and the generators stoked.

  Something like that.

  Pearcey watched him go and felt despair well in his heart.

  Two of them had gone out and two had come back. Just about. That hadn’t been the plan.

  The deputy Prime Minister talked to him. He remembered that. He was too tired to be polite or tactful.

  Told it as it was.

  As best he could.

  He didn’t know if that was good enough.

  Didn’t know if he was articulate enough to convey the horror of it. The enormity of it. How truly dreadful it was.

  He saw Holte’s eyes widen and thought he might have made some sort of impact. Ultimately, it didn’t matter.

  He was done.

  <><><>

  Pearcey closed the door and lay down. His room in the shelter was as good as you could get, but it still wasn’t anything to write home about.

  Not that he had a home to speak of. No one waiting patiently for his letters. That ship had sailed and his wife and child had been on it.

  He’d been at the quayside.

  They hadn’t waved.

  He rested his head on the thin pillow and tried to relax his aching muscles. Thought about a shower and a change of clothes and dismissed the idea for the time being. It seemed fitting that he should lie in his own blood and sweat.

  Besides which, he was too weary.

  <><><>

  He’d wanted to help and he’d messed it up.

  All along the line.

  At every point.

  He believed in trust above all else.

  Not the blind, unquestioning trust of the man without intellect or understanding. No, not that. He’d come to detest that.

  Pearcey believed in the trust that was earned. Through friendship and adversity. The testing and demonstration of loyalty. That was how it worked, that was the earning process.

  When you offered it, you offered it with caution.

  When it was given, you held to the bargain.

  To not do either of those was to fail.

  In the last few hours, he’d failed.

  Made any number of mistakes and learned a lot. He wouldn’t repeat those mistakes.

  He couldn’t afford to.

  He was too old and too tired. The world had changed and the smallest mistake was now liable to be fatal. Maybe it had always been like that. Now it was a starker reality. When you tried to help people, you became instantly responsible for them.

  Pearcey was sick of the responsibility.

  He didn’t have the energy for it anymore. There were any number of new dangers, but the old enemy was still there. The constant threat hadn’t gone away.

  Time.

  It was always there, nobody’s friend. Waiting to trip you up and wearing you down while it waited.

  From cradle to grave, always deceiving you. Lulling you into a false sense of security. Kidding you on that it was generous and surreptitiously tallying the seconds until you hit your unspecified limit.

  There was never enough time.

  In the end, he slept.

  It was useless to ponder any of it.

  Author's Note

  Carlton Pearcey wasn’t there when I started the Ferine Apocalypse. Not at the beginning, when I found the first characters.

  He simply appeared as the story unfolded.

  Popped into existence. And very soon became an integral part of it.

  Not sure how and not sure why. I guess that’s just how it goes.

  In Collapse, what happened during the time when he left the bunker was a mystery. It had to be that way for a variety of reasons, but it bugged me. One of those itches that you can’t scratch.

  The irritation was partly caused because I thought what happened when he left the CIMC was important to how he act
ed after his return.

  Mostly, it just bugged me on a personal level.

  I liked Pearcey and felt like I hadn’t done him justice.

  Collapse was a fairly long book, but it could have been longer still. I made a conscious decision to not write certain passages, even though part of me very much wanted to.

  Again, I guess that’s just how it goes.

  So I wrote 4 Hours.

  Because I thought it was necessary. For me. And for the story. It plugged some gaps. Made Pearcey more real in my head.

  I suppose the long and the short of it is that you always write for yourself.

  And you always write for other people.

  It’s complicated.

  I wanted to put a smiley face here, but was advised that it wasn’t very professional. Oh, screw it.

  : )

  Anyway, thank you for joining me in the Ferine World.

  If you've enjoyed 4 Hours, please take the time to leave a review - it'll be genuinely appreciated.

  One last thing, try to enjoy every minute.

  The clock is ticking.

  John,

  August 2016.

  About the Author

  John is currently working on a number of projects. They include new stories set in the ever evolving, post-apocalyptic world of Collapse, a new supernatural zombie Apocalypse story, and a new standalone vampire novel.

  Website: http://www.johnfleonard.com

  You can also catch up with him on social media (he levitates towards Twitter).

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/john_f_leonard

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/johnfleonard.author/

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Author's Note

  About the Author