Rhos Meadow

by Lex Sinclair

  ‘I’ll carry her to your house. When it’s done bring the shotgun back with you. When we survive this nightmare we’ll give her a proper burial. She deserves that much.’

  ***

  Alan and Abigail said a tearful goodbye to Mary Zane.

  ‘Be at eternal peace,’ Alan said, crying.

  Abigail made the sign on the holy cross, placed the palms of her hands together and prayed for the first time since she was a young girl attending Sunday school.

  In a trancelike state Greg busied himself loading the shotgun. He didn’t cry any more. Instead he stared impassively at the weapon and waited by the front door.

  Bobbie lifted Mary’s flaccid form off the sofa, her skin cold to touch. Then he followed Greg outside in a slow amble. Abigail and Alan stood by the door, heartbroken.

  ‘We should’ve never had drawn straws,’ Alan said. ‘If I’d been man enough, I’d have grown a pair and gone to the store with Bobbie and Greg. None of this would’ve happened.’

  ‘Yes it would!’ Abigail snapped.

  ‘Mary had been standing with her back to the door Brenda came out of. Mary didn’t refuse to go over there or whine, you remember? What happened to her is ghastly and fuckin’ scandalous. But don’t you start being guilty and weak. I can easily blame myself too, you know? But I don’t. I blame the infection that has taken over this town and whatever force has cut off all communication.’

  ‘We may not survive this ordeal,’ Alan pointed out.

  ‘Then we’ll sure as hell go down fighting.’

  Bobbie could hear Alan and Abigail’s voice but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He stared at Greg’s back and wondered what was going through his mind right then. How would he feel if Abigail had been bitten and become infected? Devastated was an apt word but it wouldn’t express his emotions. His whole world would be destroyed. The whole purpose of fighting and living wouldn’t mean anything to him any more. Yet Greg remained stoic. It slightly unnerved Bobbie. A minute of crying wouldn’t be enough for a pet rabbit let alone your soul mate.

  He dearly hoped Greg wasn’t bottling his emotions. It would be better if he let it out as soon as possible. They needed Greg if they were going to survive. Or was survival a naïve thought? A futile plan?

  Perhaps Greg felt enraged, Bobbie thought. That made sense.

  They arrived at Greg and Mary’s beautiful home. Bobbie carried Mary inside and lowered her gently on the floor, relieved that she hadn’t awoken as a feral beast and taken a huge chunk out of him. He said a heartfelt farewell and blew her a kiss.

  ‘Do what you have to,’ Bobbie said, standing. ‘Say goodbye to the woman you loved and whom loved you. Kill the monster before it is born in her. Make your last thought and emotion be something happy and filled with love.’

  Bobbie rested a hand on Greg’s shoulder and gently squeezed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered. Then he stepped out of the house.

  ***

  The crumpled shape leaning against the wall looked nothing like the woman Greg fell in love with and asked to marry him. The shotgun trembled in his grip. He didn’t know if he had the fortitude to go through with this. Of course, he knew that it would be in his best interest to pull the trigger sooner rather than later. However, this wasn’t some mad pet dog that had gone Cujo on the family and had to be put down. This was the only woman whom he ever loved.

  Before he’d met Mary in Neath/Port Talbot College, Greg had been a lost soul. His parents disowned him after he failed all of his school exams and had to go to college to get good enough grades to be able to get a job. He managed to get qualifications as a plumber and applied for an apprenticeship. Yet he had to turn his life around for his health too. The late nights in pubs and clubs drinking until he woke up in his bed the next morning hung over with no recollection of what happened the night before had to stop. He would either wind up dead or in prison, totally unaware of everything.

  The world stopped spinning on its axis one day. A moment of time frozen paradoxically for Greg and Greg alone. The one who achieved this by merely existing was Mary.

  Greg closed his eyes and as vivid as DVD he watched the memory unfold.

  He met Mary’s gaze across a room filled with a hundred people. It could have been a thousand for all it mattered because in that single, breathtaking moment their eyes locked and the room dissolved and it was just Greg and Mary.

  She smiled. Her golden brown eyes smiled too. Greg’s heart fluttered. He smiled too. Yet he knew his smile didn’t match Mary’s. He stood transfixed and only moved when a college rugby player nudged him forward in the queue.

  Greg could feel his pulse in his neck as he purchased a Diet Tango. He walked down the aisle in a trance, staring intently at the back of Mary’s head. Her curvy mane of brown hair shinning like the soul within.

  He shocked himself when he came to a halt beside her and blurted, ‘Hi.’

  A couple of Mary’s college classmates giggled. Yet Mary ignored their juvenile behaviour and said in a voice as soft as silk, ‘Hi. How are you?’

  ‘What? Oh, good. No, great. Brilliant.’

  The girls guffawed. Mary didn’t bat an eyelid. She sat gazing up at Greg her beautiful smile etched across her features.

  She asked him what he was studying. Greg reciprocated the question. Then he introduced himself. Mary did the same. They shook hands.

  That had been the first time they’d spoken. Not long after Mary and Greg quite often met each other in the canteen at lunchtime and got better acquainted. They were best friends throughout college and everyone assumed they were going steady. Yet Greg had been nervous as hell when he asked if they were more than friends.

  From that day on every day Greg woke he cherished every moment. He never drank excessively again. He would have two or three pints and no more. If for some reason Mary and him were out for more than a couple of hours, after the three pints Greg would then drink soft drinks. If anyone asked why, Mary would tell them straight, ‘Because he’s got some sense not to ruin a perfectly good evening.’ No one ever had a response to that and that made Greg laugh every time.

  Now here he was in the present, finger covering the trigger on the verge of ending Mary’s life. The one person who’d saved him from a life of despair. His mum and father had given him life, but Mary had been the one who’d resurrected him from hopelessness.

  He bent over and buried his nose into her curvy brown hair and inhaled the enchanting fragrance.

  ‘I love you, Mary. Love never dies.’

  Greg squeezed the trigger.

  The recoil knocked him on his rump. He hit the back of his head on the carpeted floor. When he sat up and saw the massacre he’d created he felt his entire life force die inside him and a rage too powerful to contain was born.

  Greg balled his hands into taut fist, arched his head back and contorted his features. A flush of scarlet swam to the surface. Veins protruded like small blue serpentines.

  The guttural scream that escaped Greg would have deafened any living creature within the house at that time. He threw the steaming shotgun to the other side of the spacious living room, smelling the cordite. Then he rose, pivoted and left the house he’d once called home and strode down the street in the opposite direction of Bobbie and Abigail’s house.

  15.

  NOW

  Tulisa had finished her sandwiches and drained the last of her Diet Coke. She looked over her shoulder and saw her reflection in the opaque window. She giggled at the luminescent glow of Jack waving back at her.

  Diana looked bemused, startled at the sound of her daughter’s laughter at a time like this. ‘What’s so funny?’

  Tulisa told her. Diana forced a smile of her own. The knowledge that a spirit in the company of her only child no longer unnerved her. It comforted her in their time of darkness.

>   Diana went back to reading Alan Willard’s diary.

  Christmas came and went (according to Abigail). I confess I didn’t notice. What with everything going on. Mary’s dead and Greg is missing. It’s just me, Bobbie and Abigail. I feel them emptiness of Mary and Greg. I can’t say I know how Greg must have felt. But I am disappointed that he gave up. I somehow doubt he managed to escape Rhos Meadow on foot.

  It is my estimation that Rhos Meadow a small farming town with a population of four hundred and seventy nine souls has been reduced to just three. It wouldn’t make any difference now if we were quarantined. We’re already cut off from the civilised world by a supernatural force that I can’t believe I’m writing about, never mind acknowledging as tangible. I’ve gone long past pinching myself and telling myself, “It’s just a dream.”

  In two days time it will be New Years Eve. In two days time we will be dead.

  Basically, we are living on scraps and sipping bottles of Lemonade and Strongbow. Now there is nothing left in the fridge except a microwave meal for one which we have to divide into three equal pieces. The crisps are all gone. I am starting to become dizzy and my eyesight is getting blurry. When I close my eyes I see flashes in my retinas. My stomach is constantly grumbling and churning in protest. I now it has already started the process of devouring itself.

  Yesterday, Bobbie and I ventured outside to get to the shop and grab some provisions. We had walked halfway down the brick drive when I froze at the sight of Gary Williams, Imogen and her brother and Brenda Davies. Their crimson eyes enlarged at the sight and smell of us and before I knew it Bobbie and I were whirling around and sprinting for the front door. Bobbie slammed the door on Gary. Then we had to lean against the door while the infected slammed, rammed and banged the door for what seemed like hours.

  Bobbie said that we need to try again. I know what he is saying is right but I’m not sure I can go out there and see the friends of people I know chasing me down, hissing and spitting, like blood fiends, salivating at the thought of sinking their teeth into me.

  They know where we are hiding now. Sometimes I can hear them making those guttural noises as they circle the house. Sometimes when I am about to drift off to sleep and hope that I never wake again, I jolt upright at the sound of fist on the door or window.

  Abigail lies in a foetal ball on the floor, covering herself with a blanket, shaking incessantly. Bobbie said if we don’t die of starvation and lack of fluids it will be a stroke or heart attack that will end our lives. That’s if we manage to thwart the attack of the infected. We have options they are just all grim and horrific.

  Bobbie keeps picking up the phone and dialling 999. He even tries the computer but that shuts itself down automatically before it even loads itself up. Before the infected became aware of our sanctuary, Bobbie arranged stones in the back yard in the SOS symbol in hope that someone flying past would see it and report it to the authorities. I tried my mobile for a signal until the battery run out.

  Yet what really keeps me up all night sweating like a pig is the thought that no one from the outside world has passed through let alone stopped at our small town. Why is that? There must be a reason. People who drive through Rhos Meadow must be talking about it, asking questions, but still no sign of the police or military. It is like we don’t exist; that Rhos Meadow has fallen into abyss and been erased from every living person’s memory.

  The day before New Years Eve hasn’t gone well at all. This I find quite extraordinary as it wasn’t as if we were doing okay in the first instance. Bobbie and I ventured outside again. My nerves are shattered beyond recovery. We made it across the street and into the convenience store. In our haste we grabbed everything we could find and hurried back across the street, somewhat elated. This emotion was to be short-lived.

  I’m not sure who heard the noise first, me or Bobbie. However, we both glanced over our shoulders as the sound of pounding on concrete grew louder. Then the noise became distinct. The noise was that of a hundred footfalls pelting the concrete heading in our direction.

  I am not ashamed to admit that I lost control of my bladder when I saw the infected sprinting (arms and legs pumping like pistons) towards Bobbie’s house. I can’t put down on paper how scared I was at that ungodly sight. My heart pounded in rhythm to their footfalls desperately wanting to escape its confines. I can’t say that I blame it either.

  We made it inside, but I kept thinking, “At what cost?” The packets of crisps and biscuits and frozen meals fell from my grasp. The bottles of water and lemonade thudded to the floor. Bobbie and I threw ourselves against the front door. My head was instantly knocked back by the bodies hurling themselves without care at the sturdy door.

  Instinctively, I clutched my head and used my back to try and prevent them from breaking in and swarming us. I don’t think I need to tell you what lack of nutrition, sleep and clean water can do to the human body. Not only that but the only exercise I’d had in the last few weeks had been rushing across the street. My head felt as leaden as a concrete block. I couldn’t focus. My vision and my mind blacked out and then next moment I was alert again not knowing how much time had elapsed.

  After more than half an hour or so (I can’t tell for sure how long) the infected ceased hurling themselves at the front door. I exhaled deeply and tried to stand. Bobbie had to help me and was about to say something that sounded like, ’That was close,’ when the sound of glass shattering at the rear of the house.

  Bobbie has taped the kitchen window with tape. But now that it is dark the infected are swarming the house again. Front and back. The living room window has just been shattered. I am going to make a run for it back to my house and then face my destiny.

  As the infected were crawling in through the living room window, I darted through the door that has come loose of its hinges and darted to my house. I am very quickly writing this last entry.

  Tomorrow is New Years Eve. This time tomorrow the world will be welcoming a new year. A fresh start. Rhos Meadow has already welcomed a new breed. Tomorrow will be a fresh start, something I will not be part of - not as me, anyway.

  For the record this is town councillor, Alan Willard of Rhos Meadow, saying I loved life. I lived it to the fullest. If you see my body in Rhos Meadow and I am running with the crowd of infected, please understand that is not me. I believe I am a good person in a perilous situation I could not escape.

  Goodbye...

  Diana reread the last paragraph, stunned and breathless.

  ‘It’s not so bad, Mummy,’ Tulisa said, seeing the expression on Diana’s face.

  ‘It’s not so good, either.’

  Tulisa had no response to that. She shrugged.

  Taking a deep breath, Diana heard herself say, ‘Here we go then. Fail or succeed - we do our best, right?’

  Tulisa tried to smile for her mum’s sake as well as her own. ‘Right.’

  16.

  NOW

  Conscious, Eric touched the lump on the back of his head and winced. Nevertheless, apart from the discomfort and the lethargy taking its time to abate, he felt much better. The rest had done him the world of good. His vision had returned to fully intact. He helped himself to some ham sandwiches and Pepsi while listening to Diana recite the story Alan Willard had described in his notepad.

  The surrealism was starting to wear off. He had endured enough shocks in the last twenty-four hours to become thicker-skinned and immune. The close calls had frayed his nerves temporarily, and although there was no telling what they would face when they ventured outside, anger was Eric’s most potent emotion.

  He finished his last sandwich, wiped the crumbs off his chin.

  Diana watched him, pleading inwardly that she was staring at their saviour.

  ‘Jack told you,’ Eric said to Tulisa, ‘that we need to make a big noise so that the military know there are some of us sti
ll alive, yeah?’

  Both Diana and Tulisa had nodded in unison. Diana had explained what Jack had said to her daughter along with the intricate details of the notepad.

  ‘Big noise,’ Eric said to himself, pondering.

  Two minutes passed and Diana could see Eric’s brain working overtime to come up with something.

  Then: ‘Where are we?’ Eric asked in a rhetoric manner. ‘We’re in a café/restaurant connected to a convenience store of a petrol and diesel. We need to find out if the pumps are on and if so we can make a big noise.’

  ‘But how’re we gonna get all the infected people killed?’ Tulisa asked.

  Eric sighed. ‘Obviously going out there with just a couple of kitchen knives and a shotgun isn’t going to get us very far. Greg and co didn’t prevail with a shotgun. The only for it would be to use bait to coax them out of their hiding places and lure them here.’

  ‘Bait?’ Diana asked, perplexed. ‘What d’you mean “bait”? What’re we gonna use for bait?’

  Eric and Tulisa exchanged a knowing look. Then they turned to face Diana.

  ‘Oh no!’ Diana cried. ‘You must be mad. You can’t possibly be considering using us as the bait to kill them. That’d be suicide. There has to be another way.’

  ‘I only wish there was,’ Eric said.

  ***

  Diana and Tulisa watched from the café/restaurant window as Eric crossed the car park and stepped onto the filling station. He glanced around to see if there was any of the infected lurking nearby. Satisfied that he was alone, he lifted the nozzle off the hook and squeezed the trigger. Much to his delight, a translucent liquid gushed out and left a small, neat puddle on the floor. Eric stood motionless, inhaling the scent of petrol. Then he pivoted and gave the thumbs’ up signal.

  When he returned Diana noticed a trace of a smile. The sight of the expression filled her with optimism. ‘Okay, he said. ‘That was unexpected. It’s great news. But we can’t rely upon it. Also, I need to find a bicycle somewhere.’