by Paul Kane
I made a conscious decision there and then never to go up higher than the first floor of a building, and even then to be ready to make my exit quickly in case of tremors. Nothing that we had trusted before could be relied on now, and I thought to myself, does that include reality? This was all so alien to me, like the Rot was transforming our landscape into one of those distant planets the SKIN was designed for… and that made me wonder whether the cause had really been man-made at all? Chemical weapons we concocted ourselves, or some race out there in the heavens trying to destroy us for whatever purposes. Science fiction or cold, hard facts? After all, nothing should be able to affect organic and non-organic material in the same way.
As I crested one of the last hills before I hit that sprawling metropolis, I caught sight of a stadium. Obviously used for sporting events at one time, football matches and athletics, it had probably also hosted its fair share of concerts. That was something I hadn’t even thought about while I’d been on this trek: how much I missed music. Still do, though I’ve managed to find a working iPod here and there since then – working for a little while, at any rate, so I can listen to songs through the speakers. Anyway, that place was full of the affected – the Rotten, as I’ve since come to call them. Filling the stands, covering the grounds; it was clearly where they had chosen to gather – maybe following the call of some kind of trace memory from their previous lives? Somewhere they went to have a good time? Would explain why we kept hearing them above us in the pub, why they kept coming back time and again – I’m still surprised they weren’t there when I went upstairs.
Mum was always trying to get out of the house when the dementia really started to kick in. Trying to get somewhere, though she could never explain exactly where. Then, inside the specialist ward they’d taken her to – I’m loath to call it a home, because the place was like Fort Knox – while she was still in better shape than she had been in that hospital bed, she’d wandered the corridors convinced she was walking the streets of her old village where she grew up. Perhaps that was it, going to somewhere comforting; that made you feel better? Often she’d gather other patients as she went, like the Pied Piper. All of them seeking something together – though at times it would also lead to fighting amongst themselves.
I was witnessing a similar kind of behaviour now, droves of the Rotten flocking together like those birds, to go somewhere – to do something they couldn’t explain even to themselves. Congregating to listen to some sort of unspoken sermon. Was that where they’d been in the last town, while I wandered through deserted streets? After an initial spurt of energy, had they calmed down and followed some kind of call – only to realise at the last minute I was trying to get away? Pretty egotistical of me! Did it really make any difference now? Did their behaviour since it all happened matter? Surely the only thing that did was getting to the bottom of ‘how’, and putting a stop to it. Returning things to the way they had been before… Even more arrogant, you might say, but I still had to try; for all I knew there was only me.
Waiting for cover of darkness this time, and using the night-vision scope to see, I slipped into the city as stealthily as I could. My gun was primed, and – so far – not suffering from any effects of the Rot. But I wasn’t relying solely on that anyway, as I had the hammer and hatchet tucked into my belt, just in case. My first port of call would be a Tourist Information Centre, something with detailed maps of the city.… Of course, they don’t make maps to help you find those places, but eventually I came across a signpost pointing to one – Rot only partially obscuring the letters. It was deserted inside, as far as I could tell, and I found what I was looking for quickly, tucking a dozen or so into my backpack – I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have spares in case any of them should fall to pieces.
The map told me my next port of call was on the east side of town, a straight line from the Tourist Information – so I just had to keep heading in that direction to hit it. I was about halfway there when I felt the now familiar rumblings of the earth – followed by a building collapse maybe a few streets away. It urged me on to my destination – to get what I needed as quickly as possible – assuming that was still standing, of course.
It was. The library, being an old building that had already stood the test of time, would probably still be standing when everything else had crumbled around it… I hoped. There were none of the Rotten inside here, either, which was a sad testament to how things were before; the fact fewer and fewer people were going to them, how many were shutting down. But I still didn’t want to hang around, so I set to work looking for the section I needed: the sciences. Now, I’ve never been one for studying – not really. A lot of what I learned to be a pilot was a necessity, but the skills were already there. Didn’t mean I couldn’t learn, though – I’m not stupid by any stretch of the imagination. Nevertheless, some of that stuff made my head hurt, seriously.
I grabbed what I considered essential and got out of there as fast as possible – heading back to the outskirts of the city, up onto those hills where I knew I’d be relatively safe. That was where I flipped through those books, studying information about how things are made up, about genetics and cell structure and diseases – lots of things I’ve already forgotten about. Was no mystery what put me to sleep the following night, that’s all I’m saying.
What the books seemed to be telling me about establishing the nature of viruses, was that I had to study a range of samples from different sources under a microscope. Any school worth their salt would have dozens of those – but to examine anything at the magnification I needed, I’d have to visit a hospital or university. I’d have to take that risk.
St August’s was on the far side of town, apparently, so I skirted round and came at it from the back. Had to be in the day this time, because I couldn’t rely on finding a working electron microscope or the power being on – and an optical one would require light. As luck would have it I was wrong on both counts about the electron. Trust me, I wasn’t complaining. Like the library, St August’s was pretty much empty; I guess nobody was in a rush to head to a hospital, either voluntarily or in great numbers. I did spot a few of the Rotten outside, hanging around as if they didn’t really know what to do with themselves, but they didn’t stay long before wandering off again.
Under the microscope, I scrutinised my samples: the first, metal from an abandoned scooter; the second, a scraping from the side of a building; and the third, part of a weed growing by the side of the road. All proved without a shadow of a doubt what I’d been thinking: that the material – organic or inorganic – was breaking down, and at different rates. The same thing was attacking what was holding each of them together, causing them to lose their coherence. In the case of the weed’s cells, the structure was shifting even as I watched, some sort of bacteria breaking through the protective membrane. By the time I came to take it out again, it had already pretty much rotted away.
Time to look at a human sample… from one of the Rotten. It was the only way to know exactly what we were dealing with, to either prevent or cure those suffering from it. And by Christ, were they suffering, whether they realised it or not. Their own bodies turning against them, forcing them to turn on each other. In order to take a look at skin and blood samples from a living host, though, I would have to catch one…
To get my sample would mean going where I knew they would be. Probably not the stadium – I didn’t fancy taking on so many, just to capture one. Places like the library and St August’s were not good hunting grounds, as I’d discovered; not areas the vast majority of the population wanted to be, even unconsciously. There was a shopping centre not too far away, though – somewhere these dispossessed people might gravitate towards, I reasoned, but spread out. A place where I might be able to grab one of the Rotten and subdue them before the rest even realised what was happening. Worth scoping out at any rate, which is what I did next.
I found a vantage point where I could spy on the shops, see just how many of the Rotten might be co
ming or going. At first I couldn’t see any at all, just the after-effects of the incident; of the Rot itself. There was a chemist’s, which had a huge picture of a woman’s face in the window, selling some sort of beauty product or other. The chemicals we used to put on our skin, just to stop the signs of ageing, or make-up to look better… But that was nothing compared to the chemicals we put inside ourselves; pills for this, pills for that – even if you didn’t need to take them. Had all of that shit contributed towards what had happened? I wondered. It seemed apt, therefore, that half the woman’s face in the display was now covered with the Rot, mirroring what was happening to the populace in general.
But still no sign of any…
Then I saw him, a lone Rotten – rake thin and dressed in black clothing, shuffling through the square between shops. The man had his back to me, moving very slowly, raising his hands in the air every now and again as if he’d just had some kind of Eureka moment, shouting something I couldn’t hear from this distance. I did a quick check around, and the coast was still clear apart from him. I probably thought I was being given a gift here, a Godsend – someone I could just go down there and whack on the head; carry off to the hospital over my shoulder while it was all quiet on the Western front. Looked positively laid back compared to some I’d seen and encountered; if I played this just right then no mess, no fuss.
Didn’t quite pan out that way. I crept down, hoping the man hadn’t vanished by the time I reached the square. No, there he was, just standing around – raising his hands every now and again, muttering under his breath now, the odd word raised. I had a moment where I thought maybe he was one of those who hadn’t come down with this, like Carrie, Rakesh or Dennis, but then I saw the back of his neck, saw the telltale spread of the disease that had infected his mind as well as his body. Nodding to myself, and looking left and right – one final check that there were no more of his brethren around – I ran out into the square.
The nearer I got to him, the more I could make out what he was saying. The mutterings were random, but I could hear words every now and again:
“Shameful deed… mercy… cleanse… joy…” Then the big one: “Lord our Father!” That was shouted at the top of his lungs. I paused; the rifle butt raised and ready to bop him in the head. Couldn’t do it, though; just couldn’t.
It was at that moment he turned, and I saw why he was dressed in black: the dog collar, hanging from the top his shirt, no longer fixed in place, but still giving away what this man had been before the Rot set in. Quite literally a Godsend.
His eyes were darting around all over the place, but they kept rolling up to the sky as if imploring his Saviour to do something about his condition.
“Sinner!” he shouted, pointing. Then louder. “Sinner!”
I was frozen, could do nothing. When he started screaming the word, I actually tried to shush him – but it was already too late. His Lord might not have answered his call, but the other Rotten had, and suddenly I was aware of figures all around, emerging from the shops that had looked so vacant from my place of safety. Just who was the hunter now? Whether intentionally or not, a trap had been set for me – this man of the cloth the bait. And suddenly I was surrounded by Rotten of every shape and size, all coming towards me.
I turned my gun on the nearest to my left, a man who was wearing what looked like underpants on his head – probably from the clothing shop he’d ventured out of. But as ridiculous as his appearance might be, his mannerisms were completely the opposite: fists raised and ready to pummel me into next week.
“Get back!” I warned, not really knowing why I was bothering. They didn’t – couldn’t – understand me anymore. Didn’t even care half the time if you hurt them, shot them. Not that it made it any easier for me to do.
I aimed downwards, shooting a kneecap out and watching him fall to the ground. Didn’t stop him, though, and he continued to crawl towards me, leaving a trail of blood behind him like the slime of a snail. Someone to my right now, hands grabbing my backpack; I whirled and fired again… A woman this time, maybe in her ‘30s, the top half of her dress torn away, flabby breasts exposed and covered in Rot. The bullet at that close range sent her reeling backwards and into two more of her kind.
As affected as he was, the priest had been right – I was a sinner. I was a murderer. But I’d been left very little choice. I fired a spray into the crowd that was massing, no time to aim now – no time to take the softly, softly approach.
One of the Rotten was charging towards me with his head down, like a human battering ram. I aimed the gun and pulled back on the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Whether I’d finally run out of bullets or the weapon had succumbed to the Rot, I had no way of knowing, but it left me defenceless in the moment. That guy’s head slammed into me, and the effect was like a bull charging, tossing its victims on its horns. My rifle went clattering off who knows where. When I landed, I saw stars – then immediately felt feet kicking me, as several of the Rotten crowded in. Shaking my head, I got up onto one elbow and managed to reach round to my belt for the hammer. Someone’s face loomed in, man or woman I couldn’t tell which, a cascade of saliva drooling down their chin, and I whacked them with my new weapon – not hard, certainly not hard enough to warrant what happened. The whole of their chin came away with the head of the hammer, leaving just a tongue to dart in and out. In their case, the Rot must have weakened the flesh and bone there to such an extent it was like the road, the buildings; the slightest knock and it turned to mulch.
Wasn’t so for the elbow which caught me a glancing blow to the temple – that was solid enough. I had to get out of there, before they started to pile in on top and crush me, but the Rotten weren’t allowing me enough room to move, let alone get up. I had to think, and think fast.
When you can’t go forward or back, then I guess the only thing to do is go sideways. So I began rolling; not easy when you have a backpack on, but actually that only helped to knock the feet out from under the Rotten. They started to go down like pins in a bowling alley, and by the time I came to a stop I’d made a channel in the crowd. Enough to scramble to my feet at least, drawing the small hatchet at the same time and planting that in the shoulder of the nearest Rotten figure. That guy tugged it away and out of my hands, so I lashed out at two more with the hammer.
Then I ran.
My dad taught me when I was little not to be afraid of bullies, that even if people were bigger and stronger than you when you fought back they would inevitably crumble – actually crumble in the case of some of the Rotten. But he also taught me the value of beating a hasty retreat in the face of superior numbers. I could stand up to Colin Drakes when he was trying to take my pocket money if he was on his own, but if he had his mates with him – Kenny Thompson and Mark Platts – if the Three Stooges were all together, then it was time to get the fuck out of the back alley.
In this instance, the alleys were the first places I headed for. I could thin out the Rottens’ numbers in those, lose them in the warrens of the city’s back streets which I’d studied on those maps. It was like the birds and the woods; eventually they stopped chasing me. But I’d failed, and failed miserably to get a live test subject.
Then I looked down at the hammer, at the gore that was still dripping from it. I had all the samples I needed on that thing. I’d just scrape some off and stick them under the ‘scope, then I’d see who the real enemy was. The biggest and strongest bully I needed to tackle.
So I made my way back out to the hospital – taking care to keep the hammer away from anything that might contaminate it. Or contaminate it more than it already had been. I was almost at St August’s when there was another rumble, another ‘quake. I could do nothing but watch as cracks appeared in the road ahead of me, and a much larger one reached the hospital building itself – raced up the side of it. Cracking like an egg, the structure began to destabilise. Then the building collapsed in on itself, was sucked into the ground, taking the microsco
pe and any hopes of studying the new samples with it.
I should have been grateful that I wasn’t inside at the time the whole thing went, but I just swore at the sky – swearing at the very deity the holy man had been imploring. Yes, I could start again I supposed. Try and find another microscope somewhere here, or even move on to another place, another hospital. But what was the point? What was the point in any of it…? I was no doctor, no scientist. I had a rough idea what I was doing, but who was I kidding? I couldn’t fix this.
Dropping to my knees not far away from all the rubble, I just stared at what had once been St August’s, hanging my head in disbelief.
I stayed there until it grew dark again, then I just sat and waited for the dawn.
Stop.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Record:
Seemed like a good place to leave it for a little while, that, me sitting and gazing out at a heap of rubble. Almost poetic, isn’t it? Romantic – the sun coming up again and bathing everything in its light.
Wasn’t like that, believe me. You had to be there, you had to have felt the bitterness, the despondency and self-pity – worse than ever before. Wasn’t just the dawn, it was the dawning realisation that I was powerless in the face of this thing. That if I hadn’t been wearing the SKIN I’d probably be like the rest of those sad fuckers, wearing my shorts on my head and pissing myself… oh, wait, I do that anyway on a regular basis.
God, I miss having a drink. Having something to eat. Sometimes I hallucinate about a nice juicy burger, fries, and a coke. Drive-throughs were a thing of beauty and don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise… Oh, and pizza delivery.
No, I’m just driving myself crazy with all this shit. Not going to happen. I need to get on with the story, because we’ve almost caught up to the present. Not much more to go with it, then I’ll decide whether or not to carry on after that. I haven’t really made my mind up about what to do… not about carrying on the record, but about where to go from here. There…