by Perrin Briar
The knife entered Darren’s body. It felt strange, and at the same time familiar, like Dana was cutting into a large steak. There was resistance, but it was weak, the knife’s edge slicing cleanly into him.
Dana raised the blade and peered at the dripping red liquid from the end of her blade. And she felt… nothing.
No guilt, no remorse. It was red liquid. The fact it had come from a body, even one she had known, had been intimate with, didn’t even factor in. It was just red liquid. But she had no time to complete her ruminations. Darren was already beginning to stir.
Dana froze between her two options: fight or flight? She hadn’t thought it through this far, operating on simple impulse of instinct.
Run!
She turned to run. A hand slapped around the bony flesh of her ankle. Dana tripped and hit the floor. She turned, flipping onto her back, and kicked her free leg at the disgruntled face. Blood spurted from Darren’s nose, a gushing geyser that puddled on the floor. But his grip hadn’t slackened.
He crawled along the floor toward her, his free hand reaching for her kicking leg. Dana thrust her heel into his face three more times, four more, each time meeting with a solid slap.
Just a short time ago, this was the kind of action Dana would have welcomed from Darren. But now they were something from a nightmare. She did not want his approaches.
Dana turned to crawl away, pulling at her leg, but he still had a tight grip on her. She raised her free leg again and lashed out at him, aiming at his injured head, bleeding shoulder and arms, like a python mercilessly striking its prey. But still his free hand scrabbled at her striking leg. The damage she was inflicting wasn’t enough. He was relentless.
His hand seized her shoe. She pulled, tugging her foot free, and continued to pummel him. Blood splattered the white skin of her bare foot and legs. She was panting, out of breath, not with exertion, but in the powerful throes of rage.
His fingers latched onto her free foot, holding it in place. Reflexively, Dana shot up into a sitting position and beat at the creature with the saucepan and knife she still—to her surprise—clutched in her hands.
She stabbed at his face. The blade tore at the soft rounded features, slicing it open, leaving blood smeared rags of his once youthful good looks. The saucepan smashed his features, pounding them into mush, his blood splattering her and the floor. But his grip on her legs wasn’t weakening.
Striking at his face wasn’t working. Dana raised the knife and impaled Darren at the base of the neck. She got in half a dozen good blows before he coughed and hacked, the movement wrenching the knife from Dana’s hand. It was still embedded deep in the embrace of his flesh.
Dana swung the saucepan round and smacked him over the head. Dana screamed as she unleashed her fury upon him, pounding his face to mush. But he would not relent. Worse, he was lowering his head to her feet. She had seen what he did with his mouth to the dead girl in the next room.
Dana pressed her hands to Darren’s forehead, holding him back. He gnashed his teeth, making a clicking noise like mating crickets. But he was getting closer to giving her a poisoned kiss.
“No!” Dana said.
She was losing. He was going to bite her. Her body was repulsed at the idea. She didn’t know then that there was a virus imbued on every bite and scratch from an infected creature, but she knew she didn’t want to get bitten. Any contact at all with the monster made her feel physically sick, and to think he might put his teeth into her…
She smacked him atop the head with the fleshy part of her hand, his chin striking the floor. He hissed, glaring at her. A fear spilled into Dana, the kind any man stranded on the savannah at night must have felt, the same prey must have felt in the jaws of a predator, the innocent victim of a malicious attack.
He was going to consume her.
Darren released one hand and swiped at the saucepan, held weakly by Dana’s hooked thumb, sending it skidding across the tile floor. Before Dana could take advantage he had griped her ankle tight again. He could have bitten her then, but he didn’t. Something else was on his mind.
Darren gripped her pants, pulling himself up her body. His naked body was wet with blood and sweat. He lay atop her in an obscene display. The monster was finishing with Dana what Darren had begun with the naked girl. Some latent need to mate still remained.
Dana felt a new fear, this one deep, visceral, and very real. To murder was a terrible act, but it ended, and the victim passed away, but to rape and defile was one that left a scar on the victim their whole lives.
“No…” Dana said. “No!”
Darren snarled and gnashed his teeth. Dana could smell his breath. It was foul and coppery, hot against her face. Speckles of drool and blood licked her skin. She could feel his raging erection, pressing it to her, hard and unforgiving. He thrust against her, jabbing at her crotch. She was still wearing her pants.
Dana screamed, twisting her head to the side to avoid the reek of his breath. She punched him in the face with her right fist, but he took no notice. Her left arm was bent, pressing against his windpipe, his breath rasping and choking and snarling like a wild dog at a leash. He pressed down on her. His weight was immense.
His hands wrapped around her hair, tugging on it viciously. His left hand moved to her throat and squeezed, pressing hard. Her breath rasped in her throat. She gripped his hand to loosen his hold. Black spots danced in the corners of her vision. And he thrust, harder and harder all the while.
The knife protruded from Darren’s shoulder still, but it was on the wrong side. To reach it, Dana had to remove the curled elbow currently tucked under his chin. To do so would open her to his snapping jaws.
Then, a ray of hope.
Each of Darren’s thrusts moved them a little farther along the floor. Above her, almost within reach, was the saucepan. Darren’s hips were coming harder, more frantic. Soon he would climax. Dana had to reach the saucepan before then.
She moved with him, jerking her body along the floor with each of his thrusts, inching closer and closer to the saucepan. If he enjoyed her going along with him, he gave no sign.
His pace increased. Darren grunted. He was going to orgasm any moment.
Dana inched toward the saucepan. Just a little farther…
A single powerful thrust, and Darren spilled himself across the front of Dana’s pants. She felt the liquid dampen her clothes. During the whole process he hadn’t thought to remove her clothing. She was repulsed, but she wouldn’t waste the opportunity.
She stretched, reaching for the saucepan. She wouldn’t stop pummeling him until his head was unrecognizable on his shoulders. She stretched. Her fingers met the tip of the plastic handle. A little further and she would grip it.
Darren’s body relaxed after spilling himself, but he was already beginning to stir. Dana drew the pot’s handle toward herself, a few centimeters.
Darren growled. It was coming. The bite, the death. Something bad.
Dana’s fingers curled around the handle. She grinned. It looked maniacal. She tensed her arm to bring it around.
Darren’s hand pinned her arm to the floor. Dana attempted to lift the saucepan. It was no good. He was too heavy. Dana struggled, in the worst position she could be in.
His teeth found the fleshy part of her upper arm. A sickening crunch as they sank in deep, and then the tearing of skin and flesh as he wrenched the chunk from her.
“Nnggghhhh!” Dana said.
In her mind she’d screamed “No!” but she could only make the word without vowels. She screamed at the intense pain. White bleached her vision and she feared she would faint. The pain rushed back like high tide.
Darren’s eyes rolled into the back of his head in ecstasy. He grinned, and blood seeped from his lips like lava from a volcano. Her blood. It was all over.
Or was it?
The girl on the bed was dead, but it was probably due to blood loss. Dana was bleeding profusely, but she still had time to escape and patch herself up. She could instead let
the creature think it was the end. A predator turned off its hunting skills once it had brought down its kill. If the prey were to play dead until an opportune moment to make a break for it…
But it would also leave Dana open. She would have no defenses in place to stop him if he didn’t buy it, or didn’t care, and devour her anyway. But his weight was too much for her, and with her bite wound and the blood seeping from her body, she would be weakening all the time.
There was no hope left for her. She could already feel the cold finger of death as her blood spilled from her.
She slackened her bent elbow at Darren’s neck, as if her strength was draining out of her. It wasn’t a difficult act to sustain. Darren lowered himself to her arm to continue to lap at her flesh. She didn’t allow herself to feel it. She was a corpse. Corpses felt nothing. She felt nothing.
She lay there, morose and unflinching. Darren’s eyes no longer looked into her own, but drifted this way and that, peering between the table’s legs and the humming fridge. A cow had the same expression.
He shifted position, and Dana felt his weight leave her. Not entirely—his arm lay across her breasts, but his legs were curled up underneath him as he tucked his head in under her arm to feast.
Dana moved her free arm toward the saucepan. It was still within reach. Darren raised his head, and Dana froze, not moving a muscle. He peered around, like a lion over his kill, looking for scavengers who might try to take it from him. His mouth chewed on the meat in his mouth. Her flesh.
Dana shook the thought from her mind. It wouldn’t help her, only hinder her. Darren moved his head back down to tear another mouthful from her.
His sight blocked, Dana moved her hand to the saucepan handle, wrapped her fingers around it and brought it round.
Darren must have sensed the movement, the tightening of her muscles, the grunt issuing from her throat. He raised his head. Good. Dana had been expecting that. The saucepan connected with the side of Darren’s skull with all the force her body could manipulate. It knocked him to the side, banging into the table. He was fazed.
Dana commanded her body to sit up, but it was slow in responding. She was wet and bloody over her arm and side, her T-shirt drenched. She got to her knees, slipping slightly on her own blood.
Darren shook his head to remove the flashing lights in his vision. Dana brought the saucepan around and struck him across the face again, but it lacked the strength of the first blow. Darren suffered less this time, and began to draw himself to his feet.
Dana looked to the kitchen door. She doubted she could get there before he caught up with her.
“Just die!” Dana said, bringing the saucepan around again.
It bounced ineffectively off his chin. Darren was on his knees too, and reached for her with his cold hands. Dana sobbed. There was no stopping him. The knife protruded from his shoulder like the last needle on a porcupine’s back. Dana seized it, pulling it free. She didn’t change her grip for fear of losing it, and jabbed the sharpened steel into the monster’s face.
The blade made a shink! shink! shink! noise as it pierced his flesh. The knife bit back as it struck his skull, sending vibrations up Dana’s arm. The knife wasn’t doing enough damage.
A synapse fired somewhere in Dana’s brain. Then aim for the places where there isn’t any bone.
His eyes.
Dana, almost at the limits of her endurance, calmly placed her hand to the side of Darren’s head. It was sticky with blood, sweat and pus. He put his hand over hers as if to pull hers off, but he didn’t. And Dana thought she saw something in his eyes then. A spark of the old Darren?
But it was gone in an instant as he opened his mouth to bite her hand. Dana raised the knife, leveled it to his eye, and slowly slid it into his eye socket.
Dana thrust the blade deeper, but the blade was too wide. Dana hit the handle with her palm, driving the blade deeper into the creature’s skull.
Darren’s mouth flapped open and closed, like something was stuck in the back of his throat. Then his body relaxed, his arms clasping Dana’s arms. He fell forward, embracing Dana. He fell to one side and smacked the tile floor with a solid clack.
The knife tip poked out the back of his head.
Chapter Four
DANA STRUGGLED for air. It sawed out of her throat in a rising rasping gasp. Darren was beaten and pulverized beyond recognition.
Dana crawled away from him on her hands and feet. She didn’t know if he was dead or not. She gripped the doorframe and pulled herself to her feet. She looked over the kitchen with glazed eyes, emotions numbed by the experience.
She stumbled into the main living area. She felt nothing, saw nothing. The world was spinning and she could barely keep her feet. Sprigs of light, partially blocked by the surrounding buildings, cast an imperfect spotlight on the bed.
The girl still lay there. Upon closer inspection Dana could see her throat had been torn out. Her blood stained the sheets like a red wine spillage. She looked over the scene like it was an art installation. At least the girl was unlikely to start attacking her. She hoped.
Dana doubled over, clutching her stomach.
That was when the shaking started.
She was covered in blood, sweat and semen. It was hot and sticky and coated her like a filthy second skin. She stripped off her clothes, letting them fall to the floor, making a splat noise and staining the carpet. She caught sight of a figure in the microwave’s glass mirror.
It was a sorry excuse for a human being. She was crouched over, in pain, her hair matted and sticky, clumped together with blood and sweat. An ugly hole had been removed from her upper arm.
Dana moved to the bathroom and turned on the shower. It began cold, marshaling goosebumps all over her body. She didn’t care. If something could stimulate something inside her, that meant she was still alive. She felt empty and hollow, a shell of the girl who had come into the apartment less than an hour ago. The water heated up and turned red with her blood. She sat down and wrapped her arms around her legs.
She sobbed, then cried, and then wailed. It didn’t last long, but she felt she needed it, a way to purge everything that had happened to her. She felt a little cleaner afterwards, her emotions sated.
Then she washed her hair and body, making sure to be careful around the bite. She dried herself and wiped a hand over the mirror and looked at herself. She was surprised she looked the same. She felt like she had aged ten years.
She heard a voice. It was coming from the main living area. It was low and sounded like a man’s voice.
He can’t still be alive, Dana thought. I put a knife through his brain. I felt it cut down memories and nerves. Saw the tip of the blade poke out the back of his head. But then people survived gunshot wounds to the head all the time. Wasn’t it possible someone could survive a knife?
The voice’s tone was calming. Not the voice of someone who had just had his brain impaled by a six-inch stainless steel blade. Dana pushed the bathroom door open.
The voice came from the hi-fi speaker system in the front room. She let the voice wash over her. It was a comfort, that she wasn’t alone. Darren had the system set up so any breaking news events would interrupt any music he was listening to.
And then Dana started to listen to the actual words.
“The riots have been reported worldwide,” the news reporter said. “We are getting reports of violence in Asia, Europe, Africa, the world over. No government has spoken up about the possible cause, though experts are providing theories. I repeat, violence and rioting has broken out all over the world.”
Unexplained violence.
Dana glanced toward the kitchen. Was it somehow linked to what had happened to Darren? Was it affecting the whole world? Some kind of contagious madness?
Dana turned on the TV and sat on the bed beside the girl’s corpse. She was still staring up at the ceiling. Lucky her. Some people still had to live with what they’d gone through.
On the TV, a belch of fire leap
t into the sky. Someone had thrown a Molotov cocktail. Others threw glass bottles and rocks. Riot police ran at the aggressors armed with shields. More assailants attacked from another direction. And then it was the police who were retreating, backing up to their pre-arranged defensive position.
Their dance was a well-choreographed one, with formations and retreats working cohesively to create the most efficient system modern science could come up with. And it was a science.
Eggheads had put all the information they had on riot behavior into a supercomputer and asked it to tell them the most effective way to combat assailants. The computer program had tackled the problem by comparing the movements of violent aggressors with that of a disease taking over a new host. Its solution was the mathematical, almost art-like process Dana now witnessed on TV.
Dana changed the channel and saw more of the same violent behavior, this time from Russian aggressors. The next channel, French rioters. The next channel, Korean rioters. Was nowhere safe?
“North America and Europe aren’t the only continents to have seen such behavior,” the news anchor said. “We’re also getting reports of similar activity in many other countries across the globe.”
A map appeared onscreen. Red flags were staked in every country, every capital city, and then even several minor ones.
“This phenomenon is spreading faster than we can reliably ascertain,” the anchor said.
Images of guns firing, explosions being set off. The images flicked by, one by one, some stills, some videos.
“I repeat,” an expert said from his little commentary box. “Violence and rioting has broken out all over the world. We have confirmed reports in Canada, Mexico, Brazil, London, France, Australia. More reports are coming in every moment. There is no known explanation for the violence and no clear cause.
“No terrorist group has stepped forward to take responsibility for these atrocities. All we know at the moment is that violence is spreading throughout the world. It appears to know no boundaries, no religious affiliation, no ethnicity. The only commonality is all members belong to the human race.”