The World's Last Breaths: Final Winter, Animal Kingdom, and The Peeling

by Iain Rob Wright

  He opened his mouth to argue, but nodded. “Okay, fair enough. Still, I think Jack is fighting whatever made him ill. My mom always said it’s best to catch these things young.”

  “They say that about Chicken Pox, not…” she grunted. “Not being an actual chicken.”

  Iain pointed to Jack’s pink, human feet. “Looks like it still applies.”

  “What should we do?” Sal asked. “Wait it out?”

  Iain looked at the TV at a man dressed as the Joker farting on a man wearing a Hulk mask. “I guess we sit and enjoy some fine YouTube entertainment.”

  Jack clucked and wafted his wings. It seemed to be an invitation to come sit with him, and so they did. Grandma didn’t scoot up to make space, so only Sal could sit on the sofa with her and Jack. Iain took the armchair nearby. They tried to watch the weird superhero mash up videos for as long as they could, but eventually Iain noticed his wife falling asleep. As his own eyes drooped, he knew he would be joining her soon.

  Chapter 5

  Iain awoke with a headache. The sun streaming through the French doors didn’t help. He squinted until his eyes adjusted and then looked around the room. Sal was snoring on the sofa, legs up on the cushions where Jack and Grandma had been. She raised one leg and farted, but remained sleeping.

  Iain waved a hand in front of his nose. “Shit, honey, what did you eat?”

  Sal’s eyes snapped open and she bolted upright. Rubbing at her face, she struggled to come to. “Wh-where’s Jack? Did I have a nightmare?”

  Iain sniffed. “About Jack being a chicken?”

  “Yes!”

  “It wasn’t a dream, honey.”

  With a leap, she got to her feet. She pulled a face and pinched her nose. “Iain, you’re disgusting! What did you eat?”

  Iain sighed. “Yeah, sorry, honey. I thought you were asleep.”

  “Where is Jack?”

  Iain didn’t know, so he listened. Sounds came from outside, and he noticed that the French doors were ajar. “I think somebody is outside.”

  Sal grabbed his arm and yanked him up. They headed over to the doors and Iain slide them open fully. Grandma was sitting at the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water. When she saw Iain and Sal, she smiled, then nodded her head to the side.

  They both had to take a couple of steps to the side to get a good look at what Grandma was indictating, but once they did, they both put their hands to their mouths in shock. Sal started sobbing.

  Iain felt tears coming too.

  Little Jack sat next to Grandma with his legs in the water, kicking and splashing happily. He saw his parents watching him and grinned. “Swimming pool!”

  Sal nodded. “I know honey, it’s a swimming pool.”

  Jack was covered in spots, but there were no signs of him being a chicken. In fact, it now looked like he had the regular old Chicken Pox. Their son was back. It had been a overnight bug. Nothing serious.

  “Come give mummy and daddy a hug,” said Iain, beaming.

  Jack leapt up and ran over to his parents, throwing his arms around them both. “Chicken better now.”

  “Yes, honey,” said Sal. “Chicken better now.”

  Something whooshed overhead and made them all duck. Iain glanced up to see a black helicopter hovering close enough to throw water out of the pool. Jack pointed up at it like it was amazing. “Birdy!”

  Two black-clad men rappelled out of the helicopter and landed right on the patio. One of them had an MP5 pointed at them. “Get down now!”

  Iain frowned. “No thanks. Who are you?”

  “We are the Police and you've been ordered to get down. We have reports of a contagious disease here. We are here to contain it.”

  Sal bit her lip, pulled Jack close.

  Iain shrugged. “It's just Chicken Pox.”

  The man lowered his gun slightly and frowned. “What?”

  Iain moved Jack away from his mother so that they could see the spots on his arms and face. “Just Chicken Pox, dude. We called a doctor last night, but he was a bit out of it. Think he was drunk, to be honest. Anyway, he told us to stay put until it cleared up. No problem”

  The soldier was shaking his head. “No he called is… we… we had reports of a… Drunk, you say? But he gave us a report!”

  Sal lifted her chin and shot the man a glance. “Of what? What would make you point a gun at an innocent English family trying to enjoy the hospitality of your country? My husband is a bestselling author and he will write about this.”

  Iain nodded to his wife. “Thanks, honey.”

  “Shut up.”

  The man's colleague whispered something into his ear, and he put the gun away. “I’m sorry. There seems to be some confusion. I must investigate the house, and have a quick look at your son, but if this is all a misunderstanding then I can’t apologise enough. This is not how Portugal treats its guests.”

  Grandma got up, shoving the officer out of her way. Iain apologised to the man. “I think she’s off to make a cuppa. Do you drink tea?”

  “No thank you. I shall not keep you long.”

  And he didn’t. After a brief examination of Jack, the two police officers declared a simple case of Chicken Pox. After giving the villa a cursory inspection, they eventually hurried towards the front door. Their last words were a promise to cover the cost of accommodation by way of an apology, which was nice. The man with the gun waved goodbye to Jack before he left, who thought he was wonderful, if a little scary.

  The men gone, Sal collapsed into Iain’s arms. “How did you know to lie?”

  “It’s what I do for a living. I make shit up. If we admitted Jack had been a chicken they would have carted him off some place. You saw how they arrived. They came to fuck shit up.”

  Sal glared at him. “Will you watch your language in front of Jack?”

  “Sorry. I’m sure this isn’t over, in the long run. Our old friend, Matt, has done something crazy back home it seems, but let’s just cross that… bridge when we come to it.”

  Sal kissed him on the cheek. “This has been a crazy start to a holiday.”

  “I know. My fans will be so worried. I haven’t posted on Facebook for a whole day. You know how they get if they don’t hear from me.”

  “Yeah… Anyway, I could kill a cuppa. Where’s Grandma got to?”

  “I think she’s in the kitchen.”

  Iain knelt down to Jack, who was fiddling with the sandals they'd made him put on. “Hey, darling, you want to go find Grandma?”

  Always loving a task—like ‘Jack, can you pass mommy’s phone?’ and ‘Jack, can you go downstairs and get daddy a coke?’—he went racing off to find his favourite person in the whole world, shouting the whole time, “Marmar?”

  Sal and Iain looked into each other’s eyes, both of them sharing the relief, the appreciation, and utmost love that they were both feeling. They shared a brief kiss and then followed their little boy into the kitchen.

  “I think you have a good idea for your next book, honey.”

  Iain huffed. “A story about Jack turning into a chicken? Who would enjoy something that stupid?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. It’s not something a serious author would right about, is it? Besides, I know you didn’t want to think about work this week.”

  “Right, I’ve had enough stress, thank you very much. I’m just glad we can finally start relaxing.”

  “Me too.”

  Cluck!

  Sal and Iain froze in the hallway, right outside the kitchen door.

  Iain swallowed. “Did I just hear that?”

  Cluck!

  Sal nodded, her face turning white.

  The urge to vomit assaulted his guts, but he took his wife’s hand and pulled her with him into the kitchen. They couldn’t believe what they saw.

  “Chicken,” said Jack happily. “Chicken Grandma.” He was sat on the floor and giggled at the giant chicken sat beside him. The chicken wore Grandma’s pearls.

  Iain looked at his wi
fe, eyes bulging and a vein throbbing in his head. “I think it's contagious.”

  Sal rubbing at her eyes as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. “Mom, are you okay?”

  Cluck!

  The baby monitor hissed and came to life on the counter. Cluck cluck, wah!

  Oh no! Molly had it too.

  Iain didn't panic, though. Instead he just shrugged and opened the fridge to get some orange juice. “Ah, at least we know they’ll get over it. Breakfast?”

  Sal sighed. “Yeah, I’ll go get breakfast. You stay with the kids and Grandma.”

  “Great. Just leave me with to look after the chicken family.”

  “I told you it would be hard work when you married me.”

  “Yeah you did, but you never said it would be fowl!”

  “Iain, I want a divorce.”

  “That's fair.”

  7. THE WITNESS

  Soon I will take her, not because I want to but because I must. It is what I am. It is what I do. I am the Witness.

  I've been watching her for a while now, studying her, enjoying her. She is playing with her little boy in the park. He seems to love her very much. The way he reaches out his hands whenever he passes by, as if she is somehow magnetic to him. Several times, she has grabbed his wrists and swung him around gleefully, but now she is shooing him away, ordering him to go and play with the other children. She loves her boy, but does not want him all to herself. She wants him to socialise. The girl is a good mother. A young mother that expects to live a long and happy life.

  Sometimes, we don't get what we expect.

  Sometimes pain and suffering replaces the joy we hope for. I am a being without joy, but I enjoy seeing it in others. It is interesting, and I enjoy it all the more when it is due to be snuffed out. In these cases, the joy is ethereal and all the more delicate. I wonder if my delight in torment makes me wicked.

  The woman's name is Donna Fawcett. She is unmarried and raises her son alone. I know this because I am the Witness. I watch before I take. Maybe I shouldn't. Perhaps my voyeurism makes me sick, but it seems important to know who I am taking. Their deaths are always so beautiful, spectacular even, but it is only in view of their lives that their ends can truly be enjoyed. How many have I taken now? How often has my head filled with screams, my mouth with blood? I feel, taste, and see all. It is my curse, but a blessing also to be so connected. Still, sometimes I mourn for the lives I take. I mourn for the simplicity of them. Few victims know the things I do.

  I begin my slow journey towards Donna, stalking her in my own casual way. It is nearly time. Time for her to lay eyes upon him. It will be a frightening experience for her, but it shall not last long. At least she will have that. Her son is on the swing now, kicking his legs to try and get himself going. Donna can't help but give him a helpful push. Nearby, other mothers play with their own children, as well as a father with a small girl. He keeps glancing at Donna, and I can tell he desires her. But is he a married cheater, or a divorced father? Is either of interest to Donna? Perhaps. I am not intelligent when it comes to reading social cues, even after so many years watching. Witnessing. Donna is an object of affection for many men, I assume, with her long blonde hair and slender figure. She does not work out, that I have seen, but she eats little. Money is tight and she spends it on her son. The father is never mentioned nor seen. Sad for the boy. About to get sadder.

  I take a seat at the edge of the park. Perhaps I should not be so close. To be around children with none of your own is a warning flag in today's society. I am not a child molester, but it is, perhaps, a good thing I am so unnoticeable. Most give me no more than a cursory glance, and few remember my face. The only person that needs to see me is Donna. I am here for her. Mine will be the last face she sees. That is just how it is. I cannot help who I come for. I cannot help what I am. Many would call me a monster. Truly, I see myself as an angel.

  Still, I sometimes yearn to be something else. Something that does not put such fear in people's eyes.

  To speak with someone as a friend...

  Such silliness, to even be thinking that someone like me could have a friend. I may be an angel, but that doesn't change the fact I am still seen as a monster by all who meet me. The newspapers will write about me taking Donna with horror and sadness, like they always do. They love to write about me. I sell their papers for them. People are obsessed with me. Terrified by me. I am the Witness.

  This close to her, I can see the blue in Donna's eyes, and the green in her son's. Are his father's eyes that colour, or do they originate from more distant relations? They are undeniably related, though, despite their physical differences, and I wonder if the boy's hair smells the same as hers. Do they use the same apple-scented shampoo?

  Will I be able to get one last inhalation of Donna's scent before she slips away?

  I almost feel bad.

  The boy will be left an orphan, unless the wayward father returns, and what kind of man might he be? The kind that walks out on his responsibilities, obviously. Maybe if he hadn't left, I wouldn't be here. Maybe Donna would not be on my list. It is beyond us both now.

  Donna must die.

  That is why I am here.

  It's time to go, so Donna gathers her son from the swing and holds his hand. He comes willingly, as all good boys do. They make quite a pair, mother and son, an oil painting made real. They leave the park and cross the road together, the lights turning green just as they reach the middle. A young man in a loud car comes speeding around the corner, heading right towards Donna and her son.

  People in the park look up, jolted by the noisy engine and screeching tyres.

  Donna has to drag her son out of the way to avoid being run over, but she does not shout or swear--not in front of him. She simply kneels down at the side of the road and explains that there's a reason roads are so dangerous, and they just saw a good example. Being the good boy he is, her son promises always to look both ways. I can see the jolt of fear that still lingers on Donna's face though. For a moment, a mother's fear was in her. Her child had been in danger. I saw the change come over her, almost supernatural, ready to leap in front of the speeding vehicle and save her son if need be. A subtle change that probably even she was unaware of.

  It seemed in this world, children were always in danger.

  So were adults.

  I am the death that stalks you, Donna, the misery that whispers in the night, turning your smiles to tears. I am the Witness.

  And it pains me so.

  And yet it pleases me more.

  Soon.

  But not yet.

  Donna heads down the pavement for a while, and when she pulls her boy off the street into a McDonald's, he squealed. The boy did not get Happy Meals as often as other children. His mother was poor. That didn't affect how much he loved her, though, and I can see how the mild adversity is building character in him. He is a kind boy, yet tough enough to face the subtle horrors of life.

  He is not tough enough to face me, which is why I hang back. I only want his mother.

  Let him continue being strong once she is gone.

  The poor child.

  I stand in the doorway of the restaurant, peeking from the corner of my eye. An old man passes me in the doorway, the sadness of being the surviving spouse of a long marriage evident in his face. He nods politely, but I see the fear. The fear that exists in all old people, asking themselves the question: will this be the day I die? Will it be violent, or quick? Embarrassing or peaceful? The shadow of death looms over them like a low hanging cloud.

  As it does Donna today.

  Her cloud should come later, but it is here early.

  Donna sits down with a tray filled with food for her son. There is only a water for herself. I know she will eat pasta or bread later, whatever she finds in the cupboard. I imagine her stomach rumbling while she watches her son gorge on chicken nuggets. Yet she never stops smiling, looking at her boy as if he is brand new. Several times, she reaches across the
table just to stroke his cheek. There are many other children in the restaurant, and many more parents, but none look at one another the way this mother looks at her son. He is her world. The only good thing in her life.

  Soon I will separate them.

  Donna pulls apart a plastic bag and reveals the toy from her son's Happy Meal. It is a small racing car, and she has fun pushing it back and forwards across the table with him. They chat and laugh for a while longer, not rushing the moment, until Donna helps him take the tray to the clean-up station. He empties his litter dutifully and then asks to be picked up. He is still young, but too old to need picking up, yet Donna reaches down and heaves him up anyway, struggling with her first few steps until she gets some momentum. The boy is tired. He wraps his arms around his mother's neck and puts his cheek against her shoulder.

  I follow them down the street to the row of flats where they live. The building is near the town's busy centre, a noisy and unpretty place, but inside they have made it a home. I have seen it several times. Donna does not lock her door until bedtime.

  Now she is typing in the code to enter the building. I stand back, moving behind a nearby bus shelter. The old woman sitting here studies me. I ignore her. My eyes are only on Donna. Through the glass of the stairwell door, I see her climb the stairs. She lives with her son on the first floor, Flat 3. There is one neighbour opposite in Flat 4, but the young man who lives there is asleep all day and stoned all night. Donna does not like him. Nor does her son.

  Once I am sure Donna is safely inside her flat, I approach the building. I know the code, so I step inside quickly. As I climb the stairs, I look upwards, ensuring no one sees me. Not that it matters. No one ever remembers me.

  No witnesses ever describe the Witness. The Witness is unknown.

  The hour is getting late, the sky turning a subtle shade of grey that will eventually fall to black. I see this through the cracked window on the upper stairwell. I am standing outside Donna's door. Last night, standing in the shadows of her hallway, I watched her bathe her son and put him to bed. I try her front door and find it unlocked, as I do every night. She is too trusting. For her, danger comes in a speeding car or a meningitis scare at her son's school. What is going to happen to her will come as quite a shock. Hopefully it will be quick. Sometimes it is. Not always.