by Ian Woodhead
No, this was way different, she’d only been drinking because an unwanted piece of her past life had barged in on her.
“It’s totally different.” She murmured.
Emma was going to make sure that her little angel would never have to suffer what she’d been put through.
Elizabeth was moving about a lot, and Emma wondered if her daughter was having a bad dream. She padded a little closer, deciding to check and tuck her back in. If Jake was here, he’d sit with her and read her a bedtime story. He had infinite patience for his daughter.
Emma staggered back, gasping when she saw to her horror that it was a strange child in her daughter’s bed. The kid hissed at her like an angry cat. She staggered back when it jumped of the bed. Oh, Jesus, this must be a hallucination, no way, this couldn’t be happening. The kid was acting like a vicious animal.
Her survival instinct washed away the booze sodden mind and took charge. Emma raced for the open door; she ran into the living room and slammed the door behind her. She screamed as the door thudded. Emma pushed her hand under the handle to stop it from opening.
“What the fuck is happening?” she wailed.
Emma heard growling and at first she thought the noise came from the other side of the door, until she heard it again. She slowly looked up. Her daughter lay on top of the Welsh dresser on the other side of the room. When she saw her mother gazing at her, the girl hissed.
“Darling? What are you doing on there? Come on, poppet. Come down before you hurt yourself.”
Like a panther, the girl leapt off the furniture and pounced on her mother. Emma shrieked as her daughter tore into her face.
Chapter Nine
Marcus shaded his eyes as he walked into the room. He’d already advised him to remove the bright blue neon strip light directly over the door. It really did spoil the old world effect that Bonzo was aiming for.
By the sound of it, Bonzo’s television still worked; that pleased Marcus, although it did irritate him that the bar man didn’t have the football on.
Bonzo slouched over the bar’s surface with a single digit rammed up his left nostril and looking very bored. That very tall man, who had yet to notice that his grey shirtsleeve was busy soaking up split beer, was Marcus’s only true friend in the mill. With his scruffy long dreadlocked black hair, ragged goatee, and crumpled clothing, he looked like the world’s last hippie. His laid-back attitude and easy smile also helped to reflect that image. Despite his appearance, the man had no problem in looking after himself or his bar. Marcus had seen him suppress three drunken troublemakers without making into a sweat.
Marcus saw his trademark smile surface when he approached the bar. “What the hell are you watching?”
“You mean you don’t know?” he asked incredulously. “Good god, man, A Fistful of Dollars is an absolute classic.”
There were times when he wondered if the twenty five year old man before him had been born in the correct century. “Come on, Bonzo. Turn it over, we’re missing the match.”
Bonzo shrugged, “Sorry, dude. This is a DVD, there’s no signal. Everything’s dead.” He held his phone up into the air and shook it, “Even my mobile’s gone tit’s up. My missus texted me a bit back and told me that our Katie’s gone missing. I’ve heard bugger all since.”
“I wouldn’t get too concerned, Bonzo. You know what that daughter of yours is like, she’ll have found a new friend and be so busy playing games that she’ll have forgot the time.” He glanced at this watch. “Hell, she’ll probably be home by now anyway.”
Bonzo nodded, “I suppose you’re right.”
He grinned back, “Of course I’m right, I mean your Christine would have come down here if she was still missing.”
“Thanks for putting my mind at ease. Now what can I do for you?”
“Well, to be honest, I only popped down to see if your telly was working. Still, while I’m here, you may as well buy me a single whisky.” Marcus turned around, shocked to see the place so empty. There were only a couple more people in the bar, sat at the back of the room. Marcus didn’t recognise either of them.
“What’s going on, man? It’s Friday night, this place ought to be heaving.”
Bonzo shrugged, “Buggered if I know. I mean, they can’t be all sat at home watching TV can they? You’re right, Marcus, this is well weird; the bar is like a bleeding morgue tonight.” He looked over at the two strangers,” And I ain’t going to get rich off those two, that’s for sure. There’s another two who went to the gents just before you came in.” He picked up a white cloth and wiped over the already clean bar surface. “I was thinking of going home anyway. Christine may need an extra pair of eyes.”
Marcus drained his glass, “Well, before you do go, fill this up again.”
He noticed someone running past outside, closely followed by another man. He wandered over to the window, something was seriously wrong around here.
“Your drink is here,”
He looked back at his friend who had his eyes fixed on the TV. “Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“Some people just ran past the bar; something’s going on, Bonzo. I can feel it. I wonder what’s going to happen next.”
“They’re going to prop that dead Mexican soldier against the gravestone.”
“I don’t mean in the movie, you big ape.”
Bonzo poured a single for himself, hesitated, then poured himself a double. “I’ve got an idea, come back to my place, we’ll check to make sure that our Katie’s back, then we can have a kendo match in the gym.”
“Sounds cool, but what about the bar?”
Bonzo shrugged, “Fuck the bar. I ain’t going to lose much business tonight.” He put his phone into his pocket. “By the way, I just though you might like to know that I was in the gym earlier on trying out some new techniques. I reckon I could kick your arse within five minutes.”
“I doubt that very much, young man, unless, of course, you would care to put your money where your mouth is.”
Bonzo laughed, “If I knew I’d get the money back, then I would, yes.”
Marcus pulled a hurt face. “Do you question my honour, good sir? Oh, while we’re on the subject of cash, you owe me for the match,”
“How do you know that? The TV isn’t working.”
Marcus grinned, “I caught the first half and United were already three up.”
Bonzo shook his head, “I’ll believe that when I see it.” He made his way out from behind the bar, then dimmed the lights, and turned off the TV. One of the men looked up from his empty pint glass.
“Are you closing already?”
Bonzo nodded, “ ‘fraid so, matey.”
While his friend’s back was turned, Marcus leaned over the bar and picked out a bottle of real ale. “Do you live in the mill?” he asked.
The man nodded, “Yeah, just moved in. I’m Matt.”
“Hi, Matt. I’m Bonzo, and this is Marcus.”
He turned and scowled at Marcus.
“I hope you’re going to pay for that.”
Marcus treated his friend to a cheeky grin, “You can take it out of the money you owe me.”
“Do you fancy joining us in the gym?” said Bonzo.
The man shook his head, “I haven’t joined yet.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Bonzo. “I know the owner.”
The man appeared to mull it over for a moment before nodding. “Okay, but only for an hour, I’m supposed to be chairing a meeting in the morning and I need to rehearse my lines.”
Marcus approached the other guy; there was something not quite right about this one, he seemed to be very still, like a statue, or dead.
“Are you okay, mate?”
Matt joined him.
“Is he alright?”
Marcus shrugged.
“He was fine earlier on, he said his name was Jake.” Matt reached over and put his hand on the guy’s shoulder, “Hello?”
Jake’s head sn
apped round, grabbed Matt’s arm and pulled him forward before reaching over and taking a chunk of meat out of the man’s cheek.
Marcus threw both arms around the biter’s neck, as he attempted to pull him off. Matt shrieked.
“Jesus fuck, Bonzo, help me out here!”
The barman clenched his hand around the man’s ear and swung his fist into the biter’s jaw. Marcus heard the distinctive crack as Bonzo broke the man’s jawbone. Marcus felt him release his victim. He swung around and pushed him away.
“It’s too late, man. This guy’s had it, he’s dead.”
“What’s gong on, Bonzo? Christ on a bike, we need to do something, we have to call the police.”
Bonzo laughed aloud, “Just how the fuck do we do that, eh? I just told you that the bloody phones ain’t working.”
The biter slowly got back on his feet; he hadn’t even noticed that his jaw had been broken. Marcus ran over to the pool table and lifted a cue off the table. He turned it around and ran towards the approaching man, then swung the end of the cue into the biter’s temple.
“This is containment, dude. Romero was right all along.”
He slowly walked over to Bonzo, not allowing his eyes to leave Matt.
“You need to step away from him, dude.”
“What are you on about, Marcus?”
“Don’t you get it? This is it, the zombie outbreak.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re out of your head, man.”
Matt’s eyes snapped open; he turned his head to face Bonzo. Before Marcus could shout out a warning, the man lunged forward and fastened his teeth around Bonzo’s wrist.
“Get the fuck off me!” he screamed. Bonzo drove his other fist into Matt’s forehead; the force knocked him back but he didn’t let go.
Marcus rushed over and pushed the end of the cue into Matt’s eye. He looked at his friend. “Oh God, I’m so sorry; if he’s bitten you then you’re infected too.”
Bonzo grinned and unrolled his sleeve. “I’ve still got the padding on from earlier.”
He ran back to the bar and poured himself another drink. “Okay, Marcus. You’re the expert here. Oh Jesus, this is too much. I’m only a bartender. I can’t deal with this stuff. What the fuck do we do now?”
Marcus looked at the two dead men, “You need to calm down, Bonzo. I think the first thing we do is weapon up then get ourselves back home to make sure they’re okay.”
He thought of Linda permanently attached to that fucking spy hole. She was sure to have noticed anything odd. He just hoped she wasn’t dumb enough to leave the apartment. Marcus wanted another drink himself. “Hey, didn’t you say some guys had gone into the gents?”
“Yeah, I forgot about them.”
The barman pushed open the door. Marcus saw a pair of hands grab Bonzo and pull the screaming man inside. Marcus ran over and tried to open the door, it was no good; something on the other side had blocked it.
“Just go,” screamed Bonzo. “Go help the others.”
Chapter Ten
He’d have to move pretty soon, the cold stone step under his bottom was getting rather uncomfortable. Dennis wished he’d brought a cushion. That fire door at the top of the stairs now had a person shaped shadow framed behind the reinforced, frosted glass. He got ready to run, just in case.
The shadow passed, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was just another one of the blighted souls. Dennis was no longer scared of them, just very cautious. He thought that he had them all figured out. The mistress always devoted a small portion of her weekly sermon to how the demonic hell spawn would look. She used words like scales, fiery breath, cloven hoof, and horns quite a lot. Granted, it did scare the crap out of Dennis the first few times, but now he just allowed her speeches to wash over him, and instead gazed at her magnificent chest heave every time she took a breath.
If anything, they acted and looked more like walking dead people; slow, stupid and thankfully, they seemed to lose interest once their prey was out of sight. They certainly couldn’t open doors or use weapons. He shuddered, now that would be a nightmarish scenario.
He would never make the mistake of underestimating them though. Dennis closed his eyes, remembering watching an old woman running through a set of fire-doors a few minutes ago. Two of the blighted souls must have been hiding behind the doors as the old woman immediately shrieked like a banshee. Dennis had watched, grinning as jets of blood coated the door’s windows. As far as he was concerned, the silly bitch got what she deserved. She was running away from Dennis just because he’d been brave enough to ask her if she wanted to sneak into an empty apartment and cuddle up.
Dennis stood up, stretched his legs, and then brushed the dirt off the back of his trousers.
“You’d have thought that they’d have done something about the stairs as well.” He muttered.
He scraped his fingernail along the wall, watching flakes of yellowed paint float to the floor. The original brickwork showed through the damage.
“They could have at least given it a new coat of paint, it would have improved the place no end.” He sighed. Dennis wished he could fix his current situation with his mistress so simply.
Getting the mistress to forgive him after that embarrassing episode earlier would be difficult. Dennis would have to think of some way to impress her. His shameful behaviour was just not like him at all. Even dealing with his wife when the woman turned hadn’t unnerved him.
“Could it have been a build up of shock perhaps?” he shrugged. Dennis didn’t have a clue, but he intended for it not to happen again.
Making amends would not be easy, though; not now. The other two will make sure of that. He could already imagine that they’d be whispering poisonous words into her ear even now. Both Vincent and Christopher hated him, of course the feeling was mutual, but he had good reason. Their hate stemmed from the fact that they both knew that he was her favourite. They may have their good looks and finely sculptured physique, but certainly didn’t possess Dennis’s guile and brains. It was obvious that he was more valuable to the mistress.
“I wonder just how far they’d go to unseat me.” He doubted that they’d say anything openly, they wouldn’t dare; Dennis had damning evidence on them both. They’d just use insinuation and the odd snide remark. Even so, he’d have to watch his back.
Would the mistress allow the men to enjoy her body before they joined Dennis at the place of worship? The chances were high, she was perfectly willing to allow Dennis access. Looking back, he should have taken the offer before spilling his words. He nodded, oh yes; she’d be out of her clothes quicker than you could say “The Reckoning.”
Dennis ground his teeth at the thought of those three coupling like three dirty dogs, enjoying each other’s perfect bodies while he risked his miserable life for the good of the group.
The mistress had always preached that jealousy was a sin fit only for the heathens. Decades of society stepping on poor little Dennis was very difficult to brush under the carpet; it wasn’t helped by those two bastards built like a pair of Greek gods. He often wondered what went through her mind as Dennis enjoyed her magnificent body. The mistress probably regarded that distasteful performance like a poodle mounting a Rottweiler.
He peered through the thick glass set into the door that led onto the second floor. Dennis saw nothing of immediate danger; he slowly pushed open the door and found the corridor empty of both heathen and blighted souls. Their chapel was just beyond that fire door, he’d be there in no time.
The picture of those two pigs grinding and pumping into his mistress wouldn’t leave his mind. He knew that once they’d ejected their filthy syrup, the bastards would be laughing at Ernest; maybe the mistress would join in with their scorn. He really would have to do something about those two. Normal rules no longer applied, so if he quietly got rid off them, initiate a first strike so to speak, nobody would care. Dennis grinned, and then he’d have the mistress all to himself—forever.
As Dennis hurried towards t
he fore door, he counted the apartment doors, and there were eight on both sides. Only one door lay open, so he peered in and saw spots of still wet blood across the white wallpaper. The handle next door had a single bloodied thumbprint pressed onto the metal. There must be both heathens and blighted souls behind those closed doors. The heathens would be hiding and shivering in cupboards and under tables, the blighted souls in the other apartments too stupid to open doors to get at their prey.
He pushed open the fire door and padded over to the chapel. Dennis unlocked the door and entered.
Despite knowing that he was the only person in the chapel, the place still intimidated him. He gazed at the matt-black painted walls with thick crimson material hanging down from the ceiling. The others had helped the mistress design and decorate this place. He’d offered to help, of course, but they thought his desire to help hysterical, as if he was incapable of performing physical labour.
“The sooner those two are gone, the better,” he muttered.
Ceremonial candles jostled for space on the black shelves with grey metal statues of goats and mythical horned animals. He giggled and wondered if those two clowns had read a few too many Dennis Wheatley novels back in their impressionable teens. The aroma from the scented candles still filled the room from their last meeting; he looked around, and despite their ridiculous notion of how a chapel should envision, they had still somehow managed to create a room that looked far larger than it really was.
There should be a small wooden chest hidden behind her chair. He stopped and turned from the grimacing at the statues and padded across. This felt naughty, like searching through her underwear drawer.
“Get over yourself, Dennis. Be a man for once.”
He reached behind the chair, and from memory, lifted out the gold ornate box. Dennis twisted the dials on the combination lock and nodded when the lock snapped open. He raised the lid and looked at the black tubular object nestle in crimson cloth. One of her contacts had managed to smuggle this police baton in to the country from somewhere in Asia. Dennis picked it reverently out of the box and looked at the two metal prongs sticking out of the tip. The indicator next to the handle told him that it was already fully charged.