Falling Into Heaven

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  She looked up at him with questioning eyes.

  ‘I’m going to have to stitch you up.’ He looked away from her gaze. ‘It’s going to hurt.’

  Claire nodded slowly, picked up her mug and began to drink.

  She cried out when he swabbed the wound with iodine, but after that, though the sweat poured from her brow and tears poured from her eyes, she made no sound.

  He finished stitching and smothered gauze with iodine and covered the wound, using several strips of tape to keep the dressing in place.

  ‘How did they get in?’ she asked.

  ‘They must have come through a gap in the fence when the power was out. Did you open the front door?’

  ‘I panicked. I didn’t know how many there were down in the cellar. I had visions of an army of them, creeping slowly up the stairs. I just had to get out of the house. It was too claustrophobic.’

  He nodded. He could understand how she felt. He’d been shut up in the house for months, not daring to venture out any further than the fence. He admired her courage, driving across country on her own. It made him feel inadequate. There was a perfectly serviceable truck in one of the barns. If he could only get enough diesel to run it, perhaps they should get away from here – try to find others in their position and band together. An individual stood no chance against the creatures. Maybe a group of healthy, rational humans would be able to systematically destroy the zombies and wrest control of the world back from them.

  Claire was buttoning her shirt. It was remarkable to Maguire that within hours of her arrival, he’d started thinking in the plural again. It was no longer what he could achieve, but what they could accomplish. What was also remarkable to him was the arousal he felt at seeing a woman partly unclothed. There were times during the past few weeks when he’d thought all normal human emotions were beyond him, merely consigned to memory.

  She became aware he was watching her and turned to face him, a wan smile on her face. ‘Thanks for the repair job,’ she said.

  ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘Sore. Where did you learn to do that?’

  ‘I worked on a farm as part of my work experience. Sheep were always snagging themselves on the fences. The farmer was a tightwad and thought the local vet charged too much, so he used to sew them up himself. Later he taught me how to do it.’

  She yawned. The sun had died in the sky and the night had closed in. The lights in the room flickered uncertainly as the power from the generator fluctuated. She shivered. ‘I don’t want to sleep alone tonight,’ she said.

  In truth neither did he. He’d been alone too long. He missed feeling Jenny’s soft, warm body beside him. He missed the smell of her hair, missed her femininity. Having Claire beside him in the bed would not, could not, feel the same, but he hoped it would stir his memories and make the memory of Jenny more real.

  Claire undressed in the dark, though whether to save her blushes or his she wasn’t sure. The sheets felt cold and she slid between them. She shivered and Maguire wrapped an arm around her, pulling her towards the warmth of his body. He buried his face in her hair, remembering the time when Jenny had cut hers short and how he’d hated it.

  She rolled over in his arms until their faces were inches apart and he could feel her breath fanning his cheek.

  When they kissed it seemed the most natural thing in the world, and the lovemaking that followed was easy and gentle. There was no heat of passion, just two people fulfilling a common need, finding solace in each other’s bodies. It was necessary – a brief life-affirming interlude in a bleak and unremittingly hostile environment. The only acknowledgement of the outside world Maguire allowed himself was to keep the shotgun down by the side of the bed, and the one remaining cartridge in the pouch around his neck.

  Afterwards they slept and, for Maguire, it was the first night since Jenny’s death that he slept without suffering nightmares.

  Something tugging gently at his neck woke him. Claire was awake and was fumbling with the leather pouch. Maguire brought his arm across and grabbed her hand; at the same time he opened his eyes and glared at her. ‘No,’ he said.

  She flushed and took her hand away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just curious to see what was in there.’

  He sat up, his face relaxing, the frown smoothing out. He took the pouch from around his neck and opened it, tipping the cartridge out into his hand. ‘Salvation,’ he said.

  She looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s all I have to stop me becoming like them.’

  ‘I still don’t...’

  He formed a gun with his hand – his index finger the barrel. He put it to his head and mimed pulling the trigger.

  She closed her eyes and shuddered. ‘Oh, I see.’ She pushed herself from the bed. ‘I need a cup of tea.’

  As he watched her walk from the room, watched her smooth nakedness he saw something that made a chill ran through his body. He almost groaned, but managed to contain it until she was through the door, then he lay back against the pillow and screwed up his eyes to fight back the tears. One thing he’d learned since all this had started was that life was unfair, so bloody unfair that it was almost a sick joke. Only he did not feel like laughing.

  He reached down to the side of the bed and his fingers closed around the barrel of the shotgun. He broke it and slid in his one remaining cartridge. There could be no mistake with this shot; it had to be clean and accurate.

  Claire stood at the sink, staring at the shuttered window, imagining the figures standing, waiting just outside the electrified fence. She wondered how he could have stayed here so long by himself. How could you survive in these siege-like conditions without going totally mad? It was a question she could have asked him had she turned to see him walk into the room, but his tread was silent. She heard nothing as he aimed the barrel of the shotgun at a point an inch below the hairline at the base of her neck. The only thing she heard was the faint breath he exhaled as he pulled the trigger.

  He stood for a long moment, feeling the breeze from the shattered window on his face, and then he crouched down beside the decapitated body. His fingers traced the patch of grey drying skin about the size of a tennis ball on the back of Clare’s thigh.

  Salvation, he thought bitterly.

  He got to his feet, opened the back door wide, and then went into the anteroom and shut down the generator. The silence crashed in on him like a wave. He walked to the front door and opened that too. He took one last look at the zombies at the fence, smiled grimly to himself and went through to the lounge to wait.

  SHORTCUTS

  Marcus had never taken the shortcut before. In fact it was only three days ago that he’d heard about it from Jeremy at the office, and he’d never envisaged using it so soon. But when his alarm failed to go off and he awoke late it seemed a good enough reason to give it a try.

  It was a thirty-minute walk from his loft apartment in London’s Clerkenwell district to the office in Moorgate, but Jeremy had assured him he could clip ten minutes off that time if he took the route he suggested.

  He left Cassie sleeping, padded across the polished beech floorboards to the bathroom, showered quickly and put on his Paul Smith suit. He had an important meeting with the Digicom people at nine and couldn’t afford to be late. The lift was unusually slow and he found himself repeatedly checking his watch as he descended to the street.

  St John Street was heaving as usual with its cosmopolitan blend of commuters – some city-bound like himself, others grabbing an early morning breakfast at one of the cafés and sandwich bars that proliferated in the area. His stomach growled enviously as he passed one of the cafés and the salty aroma of frying bacon hit his nostrils. The idea that he could grab a sandwich and eat it on the run was quickly dismissed. He had no intention of turning up for the meeting smelling of egg mayonnaise or worse, but he resolved to treat himself to a cooked breakfast once the meeting closed.

  He found the alleyway just where Jeremy ha
d said. Strange, he thought, he had passed the entrance to the alley every day for the last two years and never noticed it. He hurried down.

  The alley opened onto a tree-lined square – plane trees, tall and statuesque, surrendering their leaves to the first herald of autumn. The buildings were mostly redbrick, towering over the square, giving it a dark, closed in feeling. Ahead of him Marcus could see the street Jeremy had described. Narrow and cobbled, crowded with To Let signs, the street also possessed a row of shops, none of them looking as though they’d moved on from the nineteen fifties. He passed a tailor’s with deeply unfashionable suits dressing dummies that looked battered and slightly seedy; a shop that sold knitting wool in garish skeins and outdated Emu knitting patterns; and a small grocer’s, it’s window display protected by a clear but yellowing plastic blind that gave the items on display an unwholesome aspect. But it was a shop on the other side of the street that attracted his attention.

  The brown-painted shop front was badly faded, as was the sign picked out in tarnished gold above the doorway. It read Magellan’s Antiques. The window display was enticing. Antique furniture and bric-a-brac cluttered the dusty area; a few ancient movie posters, advertising films famous before Marcus was born, hung askew from a rail near the top of the window. But it was one item in particular that drew his eye.

  Half hidden behind a slew of broken cameras and old toys was a head. He couldn’t see it clearly but as the weak and watery autumn sunlight trickled over the rooftops into the narrow street it struck the head, making it shimmer and glint as if it were made of metal or glass.

  An automatic reaction made him check his watch. He had no time to stop and look closer. The shortcut may be saving him time, but barely enough. He quickened his step, deciding to come home this way after work.

  ‘What’s it made of?’ Marcus asked, turning the piece over and over in his hands. It was the size of a human head, made from a clear, glass-like material and exceptionally heavy.

  ‘Rock crystal,’ Magellan said. ‘Quartz.’ He was a large man, running to fat, with bad skin and bad teeth, who seemed to move with all the grace of a land-bound sea lion. ‘Probably German in origin; though it could be Russian at a pinch – both countries had lapidaries capable of such fine work– but my guess would be German, nineteenth century.’

  The piece really was exquisite. It was the head of a woman, astonishingly beautiful, and the carver had captured every nuance of that beauty. The cheeks were full and round, the lips perfectly formed – a slight, enigmatic smile played on them – and the ears were delicate and shell-like. Every hair on the head was finely rendered, left matt to contrast with the smooth polish of the face. As he looked into the carving he could see the quartz was finely patterned inside with feathery marks and small crystalline structures. It was like looking into an undersea world of drifting grasses and weeds, with the odd dramatic outcrop of rock to give drama and purpose.

  ‘How much?’ he said.

  The shopkeeper sucked air in through his teeth. ‘I could let you have it for two thousand.’

  Marcus set the head down on the dusty counter. ‘It’s beautiful, but I’ll pass, thanks very much.’ It was a shame because the head would look wonderful in his lounge with its sparse furnishings and ultra modern design. He had even chosen the right spot for it – sitting on the glass-topped table in the corner of the room. With one of the spotlights trained on it it would have looked stunning. But there was no way he could justify such an expense to Cassie. Things at work had been tight lately and his bonus was hanging in the balance. The meeting earlier with the Digicom people had not been an outstanding success and further dealings with them hung by a slender thread. But he really wanted the rock crystal head. He had fallen in love with her totally.

  ‘She has that effect on people,’ the shopkeeper said, and Marcus realised he’d been thinking aloud. Magellan was smiling as he reached down to take the head back to the window.

  ‘Wait!’ Marcus said. ‘Fifteen hundred.’

  The shopkeeper’s smile widened, but he lifted the head from the counter.

  ‘Eighteen! I can’t go any higher.’

  Magellan carried on lifting, then stopped and lowered it again, setting it down carefully in front of Marcus.

  The almond eyes of the crystal head gazed up at him in amusement as he watched the shopkeeper deliberating. Finally the man said, ‘Very well.’ And Marcus let the air out of his lungs in a long whistle.

  ‘Will you take a cheque?’ he said, already rehearsing the lie he would tell Cassie.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll wrap it up for you.’

  ‘I hate it,’ Cassie said. ‘I can’t believe you’ve spent five hundred pounds on that thing.’

  He’d arrived before her that evening, set the crystal head in position on the table, and trained the spotlight on it. The effect was startling. The quartz seemed to glow from within, taking on a cloudy, milky aspect, the flaws and inclusions inside seeming to twist and spin, gyrating in a soft slow dance. He was captivated and sat staring at the ballet until he heard Cassie’s key turn in the lock.

  ‘But she’s beautiful,’ he protested. ‘Look at the workmanship, the skill that went into carving it.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Cassie said. ‘I still think it’s a horrendous waste of money. We could have had that weekend in Paris for what that thing’s cost you.’

  She barely spoke to him for the rest of the evening.

  Cassie tossed and turned in the bed unable to sleep. She could tell from Marcus’s breathing he was having no such trouble.

  Since moving in with him six months ago she’d had many of her illusions about him shattered. The most alarming revelation was his complete selfishness. When they’d first met she’d been impressed by him. He had a high-powered job, working for one of the most highly regarded website designers in the country. He drove a top of the range Mercedes, was always immaculately dressed, wearing the best designer labels, and wearing them well, his lithe, gym-trained body inhabiting his clothes as if born to them. His social circle was tight and exclusive, and he slotted in with his influential friends with a practised ease.

  She realised that getting to the top in any profession called for a certain ruthlessness and a single-minded determination. But in her opinion Marcus had let his drive to succeed infect his character. He was not only selfish, but had about him an arrogance that, as the weeks and months went by, she was finding more and more distasteful.

  His purchase of the crystal head was a classic example of him putting his wants and desires in front of hers. For weeks now he had been promising her a holiday. The fortnight in Barbados had been dismissed early on and, though disappointed, she’d accepted he could not get the time off from work. The weekend in Paris was a consolation prize but even that now looked in danger.

  She was beginning to feel that life with Marcus was going to be a long string of broken promises and bitter disappointments, and she was not sure she wanted to be part of that life any more. She threw the sheets to one side and went through to the kitchen to make herself a drink.

  In the lounge she made herself comfortable on the leather couch and reached for the TV remote, surfing through the channels until she came to a music station. She let the pop videos wash over her as she sipped her coffee.

  Apart from the flickering light coming from the television screen the room was in darkness and soon the drone of the music lulled her into a fitful sleep.

  She awoke with a start, disorientated and confused. She’d been dreaming – a melancholy dream of lost love and sadness, and something much darker and terrifying.

  In the dream she was running through a forest, dense and dark, feeling soft pine needles give under her feet, unsure if she was running to or away from something. In the background she could hear a voice singing softly, a haunting ballad of lilting beauty, and slowly she became aware she was being drawn towards the sound.

  She found herself in a clearing. In the centre of the clearing stood
a small house, chalet style with a high gabled roof and wooden cladding. The windows were blind, shuttered against the outside world, against prying eyes. The singing was emanating from the house and she was pulled towards it, drawn in by the soft cadence. She reached the door and paused, pressing her ear against it, listening.

  The singing stopped.

  The silence that followed was oppressive and dark, almost threatening. Her hand rested against the door, pushing gently, feeling it give slightly under the pressure.

  As the door swung inwards she took a step back. From inside she could hear someone crying, a stifled sobbing, deep and persistent, utterly hopeless. Above the crying was another sound, a soft, swishing sound of something cutting through the air. And suddenly she was afraid.

  Spinning on her heel she started to run, back into the forest, back into the safety of the trees. She ran without looking back – the swishing sound keeping pace with her, slowly gaining. The pine needles drove themselves into her feet as she ran, making them bleed, while low hung boughs and branches lashed at her naked arms, slicing through her skin, drawing blood.

  She ran until the air rasped in her lungs and her heart pounded in her chest. She ran until the path disappeared, turning itself into a morass of clinging mud. Things moved against her feet, slithering and sliding away from her as she struggled through the quagmire.

  The swishing sound was directly behind her and she felt a soft breeze on her neck with each pass. The mud sucked hungrily at her legs, slowing her down. A tree root tripped her and she pitched forward, headfirst into the mire.

  The mud tasted sour, filling her mouth with an age-old bitterness. She spat and choked, lifting her head. A yard in front of her was a pair of heavy hiking boots. Her gaze travelled upwards, taking in the worn cord trousers and the heavy leather jerkin. Upwards to the thickly bearded face, set with a pair of black penetrating eyes and lips that curled upwards in a cruel malevolent smile. There was another swish as something cut the air in front of her face and the moonlight glinted on something curved, something sharp.