Oedema: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel

by Stuart Keane

  The tall man squatted down before his next victim and stared him square in the eye, and that's when Jeremy saw the man's face for the first time, the thick, uneven scar that traced from his forehead to his chin in a ragged line, narrowly missing his right eye. He noticed the buzz cut, the muscular figure, the basic clothes. Jeremy didn’t put two and two together, but the look was more than familiar.

  A hand shot out and squeezed his chin, pushing Jeremy's lips together. A sliver of drool spattered the crushing digits. The tall man then released him and deftly wiped his fingers on Jeremy's shirt. The man flicked his gaze up and addressed his colleague. "You didn’t tell me she was a cop…"

  The other man studied him with a sneer. "You a fuckin' Yank all of a sudden? Besides, it doesn’t matter," the man simply replied. "No one is exempt from persecution, cop … policewoman or not. It's us or them, remember?"

  "Yes." The man returned his gaze to Jeremy and shrugged. "Sorry. No one is exempt."

  The first man slipped a pen from his pocket, tapped the tip, and thrust it forward, spearing Jeremy in the right eye. The second man held him in place with a fistful of hair, ensuring that Jeremy couldn’t move or fight. The attacker placed his palm on the end and shoved the stationary deep, piercing the eyeball and the brain with one quick thrust. Jeremy flopped backwards and died almost immediately, but not before he defecated in his trousers and stained the road with oozing blood and viscous orbital fluid. Once complete, the men both stood up, congregated before the red Skoda and looked around.

  The first man looked at the other. "Shall we move the bodies?"

  "Why? In days, bodies will be all that's left of the United Kingdom. Piles and piles of bodies. It's all the country deserves."

  "Including our dedicated disciples, those who gave their lives to the cause. Like Fiona … One, like the others."

  Both men nodded in silent agreement.

  "Is this to their liking, do you think?" the second man asked, pointing to the bodies, indicating to the victims.

  The first man nodded. "No witnesses, that was the rule following the outbreak. Number One was a phenomenal student, gifted in ways that many could only wish for, but her husband was always going to be a sure-fire liability. As you just saw – he was about to be questioned about her activities. And I didn't put my neck on the line, spend two years in the hovel of the British Army, for it all to fall apart at the last hurdle."

  "We can’t have that," the second man finished.

  "Exactly. The cause needs to be protected. It's better this way – no one will care about two random bodies on the motorway, not when the country is falling apart from every surmountable angle, and no one will make the connection with the chaos that's currently stretching the UK to breaking point." He looked at the mutilated bodies and nodded. "The whole country will look like this soon, anyway. No one will even notice."

  "A job well done," the second man confirmed.

  "Yes. And now, we face redemption. A new future. Let's go – our job here is done."

  The men climbed into the car and drove away, leaving the dead bodies to the afternoon heat and the total silence.

  FOURTEEN

  "Where are we headed, sir?"

  Stephen trailed behind Alex as they dutifully navigated the streets before them, staying vigilant and becoming one with the enveloping shadows. They had no desire to draw attention to themselves; they wanted to avoid unnecessary fuss from random strangers, and find professional help as soon as possible. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, ushering in the early evening with a beautiful orange skyline and total, foreboding silence.

  Darkness would soon follow; it would fall on the silent city and their stunted, reeling minds like a final curtain, and nothing positive could come from that particular combination.

  Alex stared down the street, his vision still a little blurred from the impact of the blast. Despite his quest to move on and find help, he had a nagging sensation on his mind.

  How did I survive?

  I was standing right there, in the middle of the pub when the bomb exploded, yet I don't have a scratch on me.

  Alex padded his chest and arms as the conundrum rolled around inside his throbbing skull, as if to confirm their very existence. Bare palms smacked clothed flesh and bone, the only clarification he needed. Minor wounds, a few scratches and scrapes, but he was still alive.

  A miracle?

  A fluke?

  Or, if you believe in that sort of mumbo jumbo, it's simply not your time.

  Death has other designs for you yet.

  No need to be so morbid.

  One thing was for certain; he knew Stephen was thinking the exact same thing.

  Confusion reigned supreme for both men as their jarred faculties slowly returned to normal following the attack. Alex suspected that Stephen was suffering from a mild case of shell shock; the bar man was not as attentive or chatty as normal. He'd only known the man for a few hours, but even then, his behaviour seemed abnormal.

  I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Those fridges aren't easy to break. It must have been a hell of a hit.

  They continued on.

  Alex gazed ahead once more, still confused, and couldn’t explain what he was seeing. He expected nothing but surging crowds and mass hysteria in the wake of such an explosion, a potential terrorist attack on home soil. He hoped to see a flurry of emergency vehicles – the help they so desperately required; he and Stephen had both incurred slight injuries in the attack, a fact that was becoming ever-present as their aches and grimaces began to hinder their progress. On several occasions, during the short walk, they were forced to stop their unexpected pilgrimage and gather both their breath and wits.

  Not once did they see anyone that resembled help. Or anyone, period.

  Instead, the curving stretches of unending pavement and asphalt, normally brimming with a plethora of people and vehicles of all sizes, were desolate. No one was in sight, and nothing moved between the tall rows of buildings. No people with shopping bags, no darting vehicles breaking the speed limit, and no blinking blue lights or welcome relief. It seemed that Alex's recollection of the last few days, the investigative downtime spent exploring the local city, was for nought – even Stephen looked at him with a narrowed gaze, confused by the dormant scene that currently existed in his home city, as if the world had suddenly stood still.

  Well, almost…

  They passed a burning car, the tyres melted into sticky obsidian pools at its charred base, its slim windows blazing and aglow with burning, wicked flames and dark, coiling smoke. The chassis was blackened and stripped of any defining personality, leaving it as nothing but a scorched husk. A smatter of broken glass peppered the road around it, and several pieces of destroyed metal littered the surrounding area.

  "A Porsche 911 Carrera." Stephen mused. "A beautiful car, unique in design, but not one for those with a restricted wallet. What miscreant did this to such a beautiful specimen? It's such a crying shame."

  Alex studied the vehicle, bemused. "I see."

  In Alex's very limited knowledge of sports cars, which was garnered from a slew of action movies, a Porsche usually had beautiful red or black paintwork, and sleek curves that defied artistic design, but this vehicle was so bent and broken by the raging flames, and a violent attack, that he could no longer tell.

  Stephen limped forward, and repeated his original question. "Where are we headed, sir?"

  Alex leaned on his knees and tried to catch his flagging breath. "I have no idea. And stop with the 'sir' nonsense. You're not at work anymore. I think we've gone through enough to exist on a first-name basis."

  "As you wish."

  Alex paused and looked at his colleague, urging him to continue.

  "As you wish, Alex," Stephen finally conceded, with a smile on his grubby face. He placed a hand to the back of his head, flinched, and hissed through his teeth. The stabbing pain poked and prodded at the bristling anger welling deep within his frail body, and cau
sed him to respond to Alex's demand. "I don't usually drop my ways and manners for anyone, it's not in my being, so think yourself bloody lucky."

  "Without me, you'd be buried beneath a ton of rubble by now. I'd say we're even."

  "And without me, you wouldn’t have been able to embrace your no-signal-sensibilities."

  Alex grinned, the mood suddenly lifted. "What does that even mean?"

  Stephen dropped his head and chuckled. "I don't know. This bump on the head has clearly played hell with my cognitive faculties."

  "Yeah, well. We'll get you some help. Just hold on a little longer."

  Alex cautiously moved to the pavement and halted beneath the blue awning of a Greggs bakery. He realised the doors were closed and locked, the frosted glass barrier preventing any custom. The dim display cases stood patiently beyond, stocked with fresh goods and ready to serve. Alex checked his watch.

  19:01.

  They closed early?

  "Stephen, what time do the shops shut around here?"

  "Eight or nine. On most days. We're pretty liberal with closing times around here."

  "It's only seven?"

  "Well … what can I tell you? I'm not really in the mood for a sausage roll, right now."

  Alex pointed at the doors. "But they're closed at seven?"

  "I understood you the first time."

  "Doesn't that seem a little odd to you?"

  Stephen finally caught on. His trembling hand caressed the back of his head once more, and pressed against the throbbing flesh. His probing fingers traced against flecks of dry blood and the first slippery healing of a weeping wound. He pouted and nodded, in agreement. "A little."

  Alex walked past the bakery and continued down the street, moving slowly for Stephen's sake. He studied the buildings across the street, their stark desolation and lack of functional life. With rousing suspicion, he eyed several top floor windows, a host of rusty fire escapes, and several shop doors that stood wide open. Aside from a billowing red curtain and the patient whistle of the wind, he sensed nothing at all. "This place is practically a ghost town."

  "It has its moments," Stephen replied, leaning against a brick wall. "Once, I served one person all day. One person on a double shift, twelve long hours. It's crazy. The custom comes and goes, depending on the dwindling economy or the TV schedule."

  "TV schedule?"

  "When the World Cup is on, your business better own a widescreen TV or … well, you'll be twiddling your thumbs for several hours at a time. My pub isn't … wasn't that sort of establishment."

  "I never did like football."

  Stephen nodded in silent agreement. He gazed up and down the street, trepidation in his eye. "It does seem a little odd, though. There's nothing. No stray dogs, no graffitiing delinquents, no movement. Usually … usually, there's something."

  Alex dipped his chin. "This isn’t right. All of this because of a single car explosion? That doesn’t make any sense."

  "Maybe they evacuated the local area," Stephen surmised. "Maybe they feared the worst. Chemical warfare is a pretty big risk nowadays. Maybe it's protocol."

  "That's a lot of maybes … and possible, but I don’t like this."

  Alex scooted forward and sidled by a closed grocery store, noticing that the green fruit and vegetable buckets were abandoned on the pavement. Some were empty, some half-full, and a couple were toppled and broken into jagged pieces, spilling their colourful contents into the road. Some fruit had survived the fall and jostled around in the quiet breeze, intact, and others were crushed into mush, like grounded smoothies. Splotches of pulpy green and yellow smeared the cracked concrete like a modern-day art piece. Stephen made a point to step around them as he followed his friend down the street, still perplexed by the eerie silence that shackled his city.

  Alex moved on and stopped alongside a local bakery, both surprised and fondly happy that a local establishment was more than holding its own against the behemoth that is Greggs, especially as they resided on the same street. His early childhood was made immeasurably happier by such local eateries; his discovery and joy of food had begun there, and in modern day 2017, with the economy changing and benefitting a majority of the big companies, it was rare to see. He took a moment to relish the fresh delicacies in the window, and found his mouth watering.

  "I'm still not in the mood for a sausage roll," Stephen interjected.

  "Fine. Spoilsport," Alex muttered. He smiled.

  They continued down the street, turned a corner, and walked through a narrow wooden gateway. Alex led Stephen down an eclectic, white-bricked alleyway flanked by head-high foliage and overhanging cherry blossom trees. Both rustled in the wind, which was the only sound that met their ears. Crisp white and pink petals drifted on the cool air before them, twirling and dancing on the breeze like nature's mini marionettes, creating a simple scene of absolute beauty that seemed out of place in the ominous silence that provided its canvas.

  The men glanced at one another, and moved on.

  The alley ended and they emerged on a retail high street – an array of shops stood proud on either side of the thoroughfare, enclosed in a range of vintage stone buildings that leant the street a resemblance of ageless class, despite the varying, modern fascias that now adorned their fronts. Varnished benches with glistening gold trim and mahogany litter receptacles were placed sporadically along the curved boulevard, offering plenty of respite to suffering shoppers, and the centre of the street – which coincided with the unmissable marble entrance to a grand shopping centre – was home to an elaborate, rounded water fountain. Two stone angels, stood back to back, sprayed water from both their mouths and shoulder-mounted urns, the water on a continuous cycle. The delicate trickle of the water forced both men to lick their lips. The bricks that constructed the ground beneath their feet were painted a faded red, which indicated that vehicle traffic was strictly forbidden, something clarified by the thick white bollards that held prominence in the distance, at either end of the impressive promenade.

  Regardless of the grandeur, the entire street was empty.

  Nothing moved.

  "Fuck this. What the hell is going on?" Alex blurted. He spun on the spot, hands on hips, frustration clear on his dirt-smudged face. Stephen staggered to a nearby bench and lowered himself onto it. He breathed out and gingerly touched the back of his head again, wincing. Alex noticed. "You need a doctor."

  Stephen wiped spittle from his lips. "I think so. It seems to be getting worse."

  "A fridge will do that to you," Alex uttered. He didn’t laugh, he no longer had time for humour in his current state. Stephen joined him in silent defiance. Alex continued, "We'll get you one. We just need a…"

  Alex stopped, and a smile finally split his face. His eyes widened as he noticed the gaudy blue sign ahead of him, one so familiar to millions of patrons around the country. Alex didn’t use the store in any capacity, but he knew of it through idle chit-chat and TV advertising. He clapped his hands and moved forward, prepared to step through their doors for the very first time. "Stephen, look at this."

  Alex moved towards the navy shop front of Carphone Warehouse and stopped. The doors were open, rolled into the ceiling high above, leaving an inviting entrance to the store. The display windows on either side were splintered with webs of spooling cracks, and spattered with blood. Several discarded phones lay on the floor below.

  Stephen sidled up behind him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Careful. The street is empty, but it doesn’t mean the shop is."

  "Looters?" Alex asked.

  Stephen nodded, but said nothing.

  "You worry too much," Alex said, nonchalantly. He eased through the door, his eyes firmly on the empty cashier desk, and tensed as his feet squeaked on the polished laminate flooring. Stephen reluctantly followed him into the shop while flicking his gaze back to the suspicious opening of the entrance.

  Alex stuck out a toe and kicked aside an iPhone Six. The hollow unit made a tinny clatter as it skittered
effortlessly across the floor, hit several other phones on its journey, and stopped dead against the wall. He headed towards the service desk, a large oak C-shape counter embedded in the rear wall. "These dummy phones won't get us anywhere. We need to find the store room."

  Stephen began to study some of the technological jargon that plastered the display walls, and immediately shook his head. Meaningless patterns only a pen pusher could conjure up, comprised of colourful boxes and varying tariffs that proposed simplicity, but actually brought more confusion than a man would care to admit, lined the walls like plaques, like proud accomplishments. Stephen gave up and turned to his friend. "You're the boss. I've never been in one of these shops before."

  "I commend your reluctance to buy into mobile technology," Alex replied.

  "I wish many others would follow suit. Society would stand a chance, then." Stephen squinted out into the empty street, studied the isolated boulevard. "Well, they might have. Mobile technology has rotted the average mind. And if it wasn't for the mobile phone, we could have easily found a phone box by now, albeit a urine-soaked, vandalised one."

  Alex placed his hands on the service desk. "I hear you. I miss those bad boys, pretending to be Clark Kent when you stepped into one. It was a great moment of my childhood."

  "I don't recall Clark Kent ever pissing in a phone box?"

  Alex looked at his friend and said nothing, but a sheepish smile appeared on his face.

  "I thought so. No child ever had a real need to enter a phone box. You scoundrel."

  Alex chuckled. "All we need is a working phone, and a prepaid sim card. Two calls, and we're set."

  He scooted behind the desk, scattered some papers about, and lifted the internal phone. He held it to his ear and slammed it back down. He tried again, and pushed several buttons before slamming it down once more. He then tried the second phone a few feet away, but got the same response. No dial tone.