Dog Blood

by David Moody

  Mark felt like an amateur forensics investigator trying to piece together a murder scene as he stood in the small room and stepped over the first corpse. It was a mirror image of the room where he and the others were living. A woman lay on the floor, her face pallid and gray, savage welts, bruises, and scratches covering her neck. In the opposite corner, a man who he’d assumed was either her partner or her brother sat slumped with blood pouring out of razor slashes across his throat and wrists. The cuts were still dripping. He was the one who’d snapped, Mark assumed. Looked like he’d taken his sudden aggression out on the woman, then killed himself with regret. Another pointless waste of lives.

  No time for sentimentality. He began searching for food, looking in the corresponding hiding places to those he used himself in the room across the hall. There were a few scraps; nothing much, but it was better than going back empty-handed. At least he’d be able to—

  A piercing scream cut through the uneasy silence. He knew immediately that it was coming from room 33. He grabbed the food and ran, tripping over the outstretched legs of the dead woman as he frantically sprinted back. He already knew what was happening. He could hear her. She was loose.

  Mark reached for the door and pushed it at the exact same moment Gurmit Singh pulled it open from the other side. In a single movement he raced into the room, dragging Singh back inside and kicking the door shut behind him. He couldn’t risk him getting out and telling anyone what they were keeping in here, not that they’d be able to understand him anyway.

  The kid was on the bed, naked but for a dirty gray undershirt, her wrists still bound together with a plastic tie but her legs free. Her tiny hands were wrapped around Kate’s father’s throat, and she was repeatedly yanking his head up, then slamming him back against the wooden headboard. Kate and Lizzie both tried to pull her off the old man, but she refused to let go, her small but strong clawlike fingers digging into his skin and holding on. Mark pushed them both aside and wrapped his arms around the little Hater’s waist. He backed away from the bed, dragging both the girl and the old man with him. Lizzie pried her daughter’s fingers off Kate’s father’s scrawny neck, then shoved him back up onto the mattress. Behind her Kate’s mother screamed, a constant, vile, eardrum-piercing, high-pitched wail of absolute terror and bewilderment.

  “What the hell happened?” Mark asked between grunts of effort as he struggled to hold on to Ellis. He wrapped his arms tighter around her chest, restricting her movement. She leaned her head forward and bit down into his forearm; the sleeve of his thick jacket protected his skin. “Where’s her fucking gag gone?”

  Before anyone could answer, Ellis jerked her head back again, cracking against Mark’s chin. He bit down hard on his tongue and yelped with pain. Less than half his size, she continued to move relentlessly and with incredible ferocity, refusing to give up despite the fact that, for now, he had her held tight. He knew that if her hands hadn’t been tied, several—if not all—of the people in the hotel room would almost certainly have been killed.

  Ellis made another desperate bid for freedom, arching her back, then relaxing, doing it again and then kicking her feet back, catching Mark full in the balls on the rebound. She managed to wedge her foot against the nearest wall and pushed, the sudden movement catching him by surprise and sending him reeling backward. The sickening thud as he slammed against the opposite wall made him lose his grip. Ellis squirmed away from him and raced back into the room toward the old people in the bed, but Kate was waiting for her. She smashed her across the face with a heavy telephone directory. Stunned, Ellis dropped to her knees.

  “Don’t!” Lizzie shouted, running toward her daughter as Kate stood over her, ready to strike her again. She shoved the other woman out of the way, then crouched down and thumped a hypodermic needle into Ellis’s bare thigh. Ellis yelped with sudden pain. With the needle still stuck in her skin, she spun around and lashed out at her mother with her bound hands, managing to scratch her nails down her cheek, leaving three parallel bloodred lines.

  Then she stopped.

  Eyes glazed, she tried to stand up again. She took two steps forward, then fell and hit the grimy carpet, face first. She tried to pick herself up again but was out cold before she’d lifted her head.

  The room was instantly silent. Even Kate’s parents became quiet—her mother in shock and her father concussed. Gurmit Singh, who’d been cowering against the door with his hands over his head, stood up and reached for the handle. Mark also stood, the throbbing pain in his balls beginning to subside, and shouted at him.

  “You open that door and go out there and you won’t get back in again. Your choice.”

  Singh looked at him. Mark didn’t know for sure whether or not he understood, but was relieved when he hesitated with his hand on the latch, then stopped and trudged slowly back to the armchair he’d claimed as his own. He stepped over Ellis’s inert body and pointed down at her.

  “Evil,” he hissed. He jabbed his finger at the door. “Nasty bitch! Get gone! Not here!”

  With Kate busy dealing with her suddenly catatonic parents, Mark held Ellis still as Lizzie lashed her legs together with a length of nylon clothesline, then gagged her again. She rubbed antiseptic cream from an almost empty tube on the countless sores and abrasions that covered Ellis’s skin, caused by weeks of struggling against her bonds.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Lizzie shook her head, wiping away tears and trying to stay in control.

  “I’m running out of pills. I’ve been giving her half doses. I was just trying to clean her up … I thought she was out cold, but she must have just been asleep or she was trying to trick me or…”

  She stopped speaking and began to sob, stroking her daughter’s lank, greasy hair. She shuffled back as Mark dragged Ellis into the bathroom and chained her to the base of the sink pedestal.

  “How many of those shots have you got left?”

  “That was the last one.”

  “And the pills?”

  He backed out of the bathroom and shut the door. Lizzie didn’t answer until it was fully closed and her daughter had disappeared from view.

  “A week at the most.”

  “Jesus…”

  “What am I going to do, Mark?”

  “That thing has to go,” Kate interrupted, shouting from across the room and pointing accusingly at the bathroom door. “Get it out of here, because if you two don’t, I will.”

  He walked over to her and reached out to put his arms around her, but she pulled away. She leaned against the wall and slid down it, cradling her distended belly.

  “That thing,” Lizzie sobbed, “is my daughter.”

  “She was your daughter,” Kate quickly replied. “Christ knows what she is now. She’s more animal than human.”

  “I know that, but what am I supposed to do?” Lizzie asked, sitting on the floor opposite and holding her head in her hands. “You tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Just get rid of her. She’s one of them, Lizzie. She won’t stop fighting until she’s killed us all—”

  “I know, but—”

  “She killed your boys. How can you ever stand to be anywhere near her when she took your sons from you?”

  “I can’t,” she immediately answered, pulling her knees up to her chest and bowing her head, ashamed by her own admission. “I don’t want her here either, but I don’t know what else I can do. I’m her mother and—”

  “You could turn her over to the military.”

  “You know I can’t. We’ve been through this. As soon as they’ve got her they’ll put a bullet in her head.”

  “So?”

  “I can’t let that happen,” she snapped with sudden anger evident in her increasingly desperate voice. “You’re right, Katie, I should never have brought her here, but what else could I have done? If I just let her go now, she’ll start killing, and they’ll hunt her down. Even if I could get her out of the city she wouldn’t survive. She won’t be able
to find food or keep warm or look after herself or—”

  “Tough. We should just do it.”

  “How would we get her through the crowds?” Mark asked, trying hard to remain practical and focused and not let fraught emotions cloud the situation.

  “Pump her full of drugs, then. Give her everything you’ve got left. Kill her, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Katie—” Mark began to protest.

  “I can’t hurt her,” Lizzie sobbed. “She’s my daughter, my own flesh and blood. Regardless of what she’s done or what she might do, I still have to protect her.”

  30

  ARE YOU MCCOYNE?”

  I sit up quick. Eyes blurred. Where am I? No chains. Dull gray light. I look around and try to make sense of my surroundings. It’s one of the upstairs rooms in the social club. I found these cushions on a sofa downstairs and—

  “Are you McCoyne?” the voice asks again from somewhere behind me. Neck’s stiff. I look back over my shoulder and see a figure standing in the open doorway.

  “Yeah, what’s the problem?”

  “No problem. Come with me.”

  He turns and disappears, and I’ve got no choice but to follow. The building is cold, and I jog across the landing to catch up with him. I recognize him now. His name’s Craven. Julia introduced me to him yesterday. I think he’s her right-hand man.

  We enter the largest upstairs room. Julia and another man are sleeping here. Craven gestures for me to sit down next to him at a table in the corner, where he fires up a laptop. I saw him using it when I first arrived.

  “Have we got power here?” I ask, noticing that there’s a power cable connected to the back of the computer. Dumb question.

  “Sort of,” he answers, sounding as tired as I feel. “There’s electricity a few streets away. We’ve just run a cord here to keep the laptop going.”

  “What, an extension cord?”

  He looks at me, dumbfounded. “Yes, a fucking extension cord.”

  He shakes his head and turns his attention to the laptop. I watch as he logs on to some kind of central database. Is this the same system that Mallon talked about? My knowledge of this kind of thing is limited, and I don’t want to piss him off any more than I already have by asking him how the hell he can connect to anything from here, or even what’s left to connect to. There are all kinds of things hanging out of the back of the machine—wires running into small black boxes and the like—I guess the secret’s there, somewhere. My mind wanders as I watch him working. I stop thinking about what it is he’s doing, and instead I just look at the bright display and listen to the sound of the keyboard clicking as he types. I used to hear that noise all day, every day at work. It takes me back …

  “Sorry about the early wake-up call,” he mumbles, still concentrating on the screen. “Access to the system’s intermittent, so we have to make the most of it when we can. They’re usually running automatic maintenance at this time of day, so the security’s easier to bypass…”

  His words fade away as the screen changes and he concentrates on entering more details.

  “There … got it.”

  “Got what?”

  He slides the laptop over to me. “We’re in. Enter your details.”

  “What details?”

  “Your name, date of birth, last known postal code.”

  I start jabbing at the keyboard with two fingers. It’s months since I typed anything.

  “Wait,” he says. “Danny short for Daniel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put your full name in.”

  I do as he says.

  “What’s all this about? What are we doing?” I ask.

  “Killing you,” he replies without a hint of sarcasm.

  “Killing me?”

  “Thing about this war,” he says as he takes the laptop back again, “is that it’s made everybody’s priorities change. Everyone’s worried about their physical safety, and some of the things that used to matter now get forgotten about or overlooked. This is a prime example. This is just about the only national system that’s still running outside of defense, and anyone with half a brain can hack into it and make alterations.”

  “But what exactly is it you’re doing?”

  “Is that you?” he asks, angling the screen back toward me. I scan the details.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Right,” he continues, working his way through various menus and submenus. “Ah, good, you’re dead already!”

  “What?!”

  “They’ve got you down as being dead. Tell me, did you ever have one of those neck tests or a mouth swab?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Because that’s where most of this information comes from. They used it as kind of a census and tried to test pretty much everyone when everything first kicked off. It’s a “who’s what,” rather than a “who’s who,” if you get my meaning.”

  “Sort of. Anyway, I’m not dead.”

  “According to this you are.”

  He clicks a button and scans another screen.

  “Hunter’s Cross. Ring any bells?”

  “Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “It’s a gas chamber. They’ve got you down as being killed there.”

  “I ended up inside one of those places, but I got out when it was attacked.”

  “There you go, that explains it. They probably marked you off as being dead when they sent you down. Close shave, eh?”

  “Too close.”

  “That’s it, then,” he says, starting to close up the laptop. “You can go back to sleep now.”

  “Wait a second,” I say quickly, putting my hand on the lid of the machine and stopping him from closing it. “Can I…?”

  He seems to immediately know what I want. He’s probably done this for plenty of other people before me.

  “Be quick,” he whispers. “If Julia catches me letting you do this she’ll have my balls.”

  My hands are suddenly shaking with nerves. I look down at my details on the screen, but there’s nothing on there that I didn’t already know (apart from the fact that, apparently, I’m dead).

  “How do I…?”

  “Looking for family?”

  “Yes, my daughter.”

  “Start there,” he says, pointing at the bottom of the screen. I click on a button marked other people listed at this address. There’s a pause of several seconds; then a blank screen is returned. My heart sinks.

  “How old was she?”

  “Five.”

  “Either she hasn’t been listed or she’s listed elsewhere. Try searching on her name.”

  I enter Ellis’s details and press search. Still nothing.

  “Was she with anyone?”

  “Her mother and brothers.”

  “Search for them, then.”

  I try Elizabeth McCoyne—no match. In desperation I try my son Edward. He’s listed at an address I don’t recognize, as is his brother. They’re both marked as being dead, and, just for a second, I feel a sharp pang of pain. It quickly fades when Craven starts making noises.

  “Come on,” he whispers, “that’s enough. Julia will have a fucking fit.”

  “Wait a second,” I say quickly, desperate not to let go of the computer yet.

  “Now!”

  “Just one more…”

  I turn my back to him and cover the keyboard as I type. I search for Elizabeth Parker, remembering that Lizzie only took on my name informally for the sake of the kids. She always used her given name on official forms. I stare at a blank screen and frantically flashing cursor. Craven looks over his shoulder. The faster I need a result, the slower this system seems to get.

  “Come on,” he says, sounding agitated.

  It finally returns a screen full of results—eight Elizabeth Parkers are listed. I scroll down to the right date of birth and click on Lizzie’s entry. She’s listed at a hotel, and I quickly memorize the address. The Prince Hotel on Arley Road—I think I know it. Pressing my
luck, I click the other people listed at this address button once more and just manage to scan down the first part of a huge list of names before Craven wrestles the laptop away from me and slams the lid down. I think I saw one of my cousins’ names, Mark Tillotsen, but no sign of Ellis.

  I get up and turn around. Julia is standing behind me.

  “Whoever it was,” she warns, “forget them.”

  31

  I’M SCAVENGING DOWNSTAIRS FOR food, hunting through deserted kitchens and bars that have already been ransacked countless times before, hoping to find an overlooked stash of supplies to supplement the crappy rations I’ve had since I got here. At the back of a counter, tucked away behind a lifeless cash register, I find three small packets of peanuts. I swallow the contents of the first in a single mouthful, then do the same with the second. I shove the third into my trouser pocket for later. There’s precious little time to think about food these days, but when I do get to eat I realize just how much I’ve missed it. Maybe one day I’ll get to eat a proper meal again, if I survive the next couple of days, that is.

  There’s a half-open door behind the bar I hadn’t noticed before. I lean inside.

  “Who the hell’s that?”

  I back out of the low-lit storeroom quickly, startled by the voice from the darkness. The door lets some light in, and I can see someone in the corner, sitting wedged between two piles of empty boxes.

  “Sorry, I…”

  The man looks up and shakes his head. I recognize him from last night. His name’s Parsons.

  “Doesn’t matter, my friend.”

  I’ve only been awake for a couple of hours, but already the drawn-out tedium of waiting to fight is getting to me. The idea of a conversation—any distraction—is appealing.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Keeping out of the way.”

  “Why? You pissed Julia off or something?”

  “Show me someone who hasn’t.”

  I know what he means. Being around Julia reminds me of working for Tina Murray, my sour old bitch of a supervisor back at the PFP. Wonder what happened to her… ?

  Parsons gestures for me to come closer. I do as he says, then slide down the wall and sit next to him. It’s stiflingly hot in the social club this morning now that the sun’s up, but the dark storeroom is refreshingly cool.