by Stuart Keane
She shivered.
Those ten minutes…
At the thought, Hannah quickly found a seat and wobbled into it, the horror of the scenes turning her legs to jelly. She closed her eyes, and groaned, exhaling deeply, her stomach on the verge of vomiting. Mia looked over, and slid to the hilt of her seat. "Hannah?"
"I'm fine, Mia. I just need a moment."
"Okay."
Hannah struggled to breathe, to fight the insurmountable nausea that rendered her useless. Sweat was rolling off her flushed skin in huge droplets. She wiped her face, slicking the entirety of her hand with perspiration. She frowned. Why am I so hot?
Relief.
Adrenaline.
The fact that you just escaped Death's door, without being seen, so to speak.
And then, Hannah was plunged back into the primeval nightmare, the unspeakable horror that would permanently sear her cerebrum for the remainder of her days, the stuff of fiction that would torment even the most demented of creative horror minds. She was forced to relive the graphic revulsion in its entirety, with a personal twist of the macabre from her elaborate mind that added a whole new element to proceedings. Hannah shook her weary head, and thanked the lords that Mia had not witnessed a second of it.
That poor child…
She recalled every detail. The angry man's face, his bulbous cheeks inflamed and mottled with the bristly purple of utter frustration and potent rage, the wide, demanding eyes so heavily bloodshot that the customary whites were a detail of distant memory, the pounding fist that malformed from structural flesh and bone to disintegrating jelly within seconds as it first slammed and then slipped, and then splattered against the slimy glass, coating the glistening surface with masticated flesh and sinew. Then, the chaos erupted, and the man's confused face – one still considering the deadly implications of his molten hand – was shoved against the glass once more, forced by the anxious crowd that had his back.
His dripping face had connected hard with the glass, the sickening wet smack providing a perfect audible through the door, and split and billowed outwards like a vermilion water balloon stuffed with chunks of raw meat. Then, the flesh began to dissolve. First came the unsightly geysers of pink, diluted blood, which spattered and rinsed the door like a frothing bottle of burst pink lemonade. Then, the proceeding flesh had slapped the pane and parted into segments, like worn rubber, and slithered down the glass, shrinking in size as they dissolved and eventually disappeared from sight. At the same time, his detached eyeballs and shattered fragments of his skull, complete with wavering optic nerves and attached muscle, rolled up the glass and disappeared, propelled in all directions by the unnatural force of the bloody geysers.
The gaping orifice of his severed neck gradually slipped from sight, as the screaming people behind him fell victim to the same, mysterious ailment.
Dripping flesh slopped and fused into a misshapen amalgamation of broken torsos and flailing limbs, as several desperate bodies thrust against one another in search of escape, and merged into one monstrous entity, an entity that slithered and sloshed as bones became malleable and sweaty flesh sluiced into smelted sinew. An entity that belonged to neither science nor nature, a blasphemy on the human form that God himself would first disown and then condemn to the darkest annals of Hell.
The saturated, corroding skin with its unnatural shine was forced against the doors by the ungainly weight of fifteen melting people, all of whom were now connected as one, and screamed in the thrashing throes of their final painful moments. The thrust of their primal agony bulged against the straining doors, and bowed them inwards as the weight threatened to breach the entrance and finally allow access.
And then, it was all over, just as the locked doors began to splinter and keen from the insurmountable force on its opposite side. The globular entity ruptured with an abrupt high-pitched wheeze, and sprayed the outside of the cafeteria with inundations of festering purple pus. The flesh dissolved and splattered the exterior of the doors with torrents of translucent slime; hundreds of pounds of flesh and bone and muscle reduced to nothing more than a slippery liquid that belied the previous form of nature's greatest creation. For several moments, the liquid gushed and dribbled down the glass, pattered and seeped onto the floor, before lending the cafeteria the calm of deathly silence.
Hannah opened her eyes, and blinked away the cloying sweat that stung her eyelids. With considerable will power that physically exhausted her, she pushed the blood-soaked memories to a dark recess of her brain, and tried to forget them for a single lucid moment. It had taken her and Mia another ten minutes to move from their spot in the booth following the attack, their trembling bodies still paralysed by the unerring fear of the unnatural events, and the prospect of a certain, violent death.
Ten minutes that could have been best served searching for the other children, a thought that lingered and poked at her fractured mind throughout. Cayden and Aria were still out there, exposed to the swathe of splattered carnage that now rendered Pentwyn Leisure Centre a glorified slaughterhouse. They could be infected by whatever was causing this bloodshed, or worse. Mia had been partially protected from the grotesque sight of the melting humans, but she held no such hope for the other children. And Mia was still affected; there was no escaping the bone-chilling sounds of the metamorphism, the bodily soundtrack of fifteen grown humans reduced to nothing but pulsing jelly, and their unanswered cries of desperate anguish.
The children were still alive.
They had to be.
They were out there, somewhere.
Shit…
Hannah stood up and wobbled uneasily, wincing as her feet crackled with the familiar itch of pins and needles. She finally limped to the window, ignoring the irritating prickly sensation, and cast her tired eyes down on the pool. A groan caught in her parched throat as she surveyed the scene.
My tongue feels like sandpaper.
Ironic, she thought, licking her lips. Considering the humid location, my dripping skin and the drenched bloodshed.
The emporium was now in a permanent state of eerie quiet. No bulging or throbbing crowds of desperate humans, no one ran or sprinted or sought refuge, and no one – man, woman or child – searched in vain for their loved ones. The pool, normally a beautiful reflective shade of deep azure, was blotched and dulled by the purple slime that now infested a majority of its waters. The formerly white tiles that lined the various pools glistened pink with the liquified remains of numerous people, too many to even fathom, and that's when Hannah noticed that the pool was actually overflowing from the influx of molten bodies, lapping and curling onto the tiles like waves at the beach, the safe lip of the walkway now lost beneath the gallons of purple water that swayed back and forth across it.
Nothing moved. No one cried out, and no screams could be heard.
Silence reigned supreme.
Hannah roamed her eyes across the area. Searched the expansive water, the island where the two boys had disappeared, the beginner pool, with its blood-soaked armbands and floatation devices that now lie abandoned, and the faux cave that shrouded and homed the tropical pool – which was completely cut off from the main body of water. Even from here, Hannah could see beneath the overhang of the cave, and notice that its contained water was nothing more than an elongated circle of deep, frothing red. At the sight of a severed human arm, one that floated and bobbed on the unsettled surface, she averted her eyes.
Where are you?
Cayden. Aria.
Where the fuck are you?
Hannah winced again, slapped a hand to her foot, the prick of pins and needles finally receding, and retreated from the window. She returned to the booth, slid behind the table, and sat on the bench opposite Mia. The girl watched her with inquisitive eyes, as usual, her hands flat on the table, holding her small frame in place. Hannah nodded.
Now or never…
"Mia. Do … do you understand what just happened here?"
Mia shook her head, and looked toward
s the door with innocent eyes. Watched the pool of liquid with total disengagement, like a child does when the result of their fruitless search isn't a bar of chocolate or a new toy.
Hannah took it as a good sign, and decided to proceed.
"The water down there … in the pool, it's … there's … erm…"
"A viral?" Mia proposed.
"Viral?" Hannah queried, and then realised. "Oh, you mean a virus."
Mia sheepishly stared at the woman, and nodded. "Virus. Yes."
Hannah breathed out, and couldn’t resist a relieved chuckle. Mia's alleviated intelligence had once again astounded her, regardless of the slight word confusion. However, the conversation was about to become very difficult. "Yes. How … but how did you know?"
"I've seen some of Daddy's movies. Greta is pretty lenient in that way, it's our little secret. I know why people act like they do." She pointed to the door. "Why they were mad, and tried to get in."
"Which movies?"
Mia shook her head, her lips overly pursed for dramatic effect. "Uh, uh. I don't want to get into trouble."
Hannah chuckled again. "Okay, okay. You're not in trouble. It actually makes this a lot easier. I need to tell you something, something a girl shouldn’t hear at your age, and it's not nice. It's usually for adults only. Are you okay with that?"
"Sure," Mia replied. "That man wanted to kill us, didn’t he?"
Hannah reached across the table, and took Mia's tiny hand in hers. "Yes. He did."
"Why?"
"He was sick. Very sick. Him, and all the people outside. They couldn’t help it, the vi … viral, is in the water, down there. The whole pool has it. I think. I don’t know the details, and probably never will, but from what I've seen so far, everyone who has … suffered from the viral, they got the water on their skin, and were in the pool at some point. We weren't, we stayed dry, and we're still alive. Which is how I come to this conclusion. Do you understand?"
Mia watched the woman, and didn’t move.
She continued, "The water is infected. When people … when someone gets it on their skin, it makes … turns them … it does nasty things to them, turns the person into water, like that puddle over there."
"They melt?"
"Yes. Like an ice lolly left in the sun."
"I understand."
"Good."
"But, I think you're wrong," Mia conferred. "It doesn't make sense."
"How so, darling?"
"If the water is the cause, how comes you're alive? You put your foot in the water, before we sunbathed."
Hannah stopped still, and fell into a deathly silence.
Mia stared at her. "Hannah?"
She's right … I completely forgot.
Oh no…
Please … please don't…
It was for a few seconds, at most. It can't, it can't…
Hannah couldn’t resist the terrifying urge; she glanced down at her left foot, and felt the bottom of her world fall into an endless, spiralling abyss. The pins and needles were commonplace, part of everyday life and anatomy, but when she studied her foot, took in its boring details, its bare flesh and plain toenails and its slim figure, and the red birth mark by her big toe, she realised pins and needles were just a bodily smoke screen. Hannah had to conceal a petrified squeal, one that caught in her throat and made her cough. She wiped her face, and realised the sweat had returned in force. It dribbled off her skin, like water from a hose.
Her foot was crooked at the side, the middle of her appendage leaning to the left, arching the toes away from her, off-kilter from the centre. She poked at it with a finger, and felt nothing but rubbery texture as she pushed at the malformed flesh. The toes wobbled like jelly as she removed her hand, and the indent remained, leaving a rounded depression in the top of her foot. She shook her head as the tears formed in her eyes.
This can't be happening…
This can't…
Mia.
You don't have time for this.
Hannah nodded to herself, thinking fast, and blinked.
I'm right. Time is not my ally.
And her survival wasn't paramount, not anymore.
The virus … the onset of its effects, from her personal experience, was ludicrously fast.
Mia was her top priority, but her health … she didn’t have a time frame, a schedule. She thought back to the horrendous carnage below, the overflowing pool, the water that covered every surface and walkway, making it impossible to pass. If they took that route, Mia wasn't getting out of there alive.
I can't carry her.
My legs will buckle at some point …
I could drop her. She could get splashed. Or worse…
We could run into more people.
Without the safety of a door to protect us.
She had no time to debate it.
She wiped away the tears and stared at the back door to the cafeteria, the possible exit that had nearly brought a wave of violent death upon them. She placed her foot onto the floor and pushed downwards. It still held her weight, and its shape… but for how long, she didn’t know.
Possible exit?
I hope this works…
She turned to the girl. "Mia. You still hungry?"
NINETEEN
Alex began to circle the kneeling doctor, in an attempt to talk to the fallen Stephen, but Slipknot held out a firm hand, restricting his access. Alex shoved a set of trembling fingers through his tussled hair, his face twisted into a fearful grimace as his skull throbbed abhorrently behind his eyeballs, and let out a deep sigh.
Slipknot dipped his chin, straightened up, and stuck out two bloody fingers. Between them, a thick shard of brown glass that glistened with a sheen of dark blood, curved and vicious, a corner of the rounded head of the broken bottle. It dripped crimson from its jagged tip, dappling the man's gloved hand.
"What do you mean it doesn’t look good?" Alex finally asked.
"This … this was buried in the back of his head. I'm talking embedded in the skull, close to the brain. It's a miracle he's still breathing. I can't … I can't stitch him up here, not with the tools at my disposal. He needs actual medical attention, a hospital, a sanitary environment. Even then … it's not looking good. I'm sorry."
Alex laughed. "You're kidding. Sorry? You guys did this, this is your fucking fault, and now you're just going to leave him here to die?"
Slipknot shook his head. "No. I didn’t say that."
"Then out with it, doctor!" Alex screamed, losing his grip a little. "This man's life is in your hands," he added, pointing at the trio of attackers.
Slipknot stared at the blood-soaked floor for indeterminable minutes, considered an option that was seemingly beyond his power, and finally looked at Killswitch, his eyes silently pleading. As if to say, you opened this can of worms. This is your call.
Killswitch paused and nodded. "Okay. We can take him to a hospital. Get him the help he needs. We know of one that's still functioning."
Alex raised his chin. "Don't be offended if I don't believe you."
Hatebreed took a step forward. "He's right, and you should believe him. We come from a gated private community … despite what we look like, we're upstanding members within. We have medical facilities, a place to heal, food, water … seems that some people expected these attacks to happen, expected the world to go to shit, and planned ahead. People with bottomless pockets and severe paranoia. People who … well, who did something that seemed trivial and slightly insane, and are now reaping the grateful rewards from their fellow man."
Alex sniffed. "People … your people? The ones you mentioned before…"
Killswitch nodded. "Honest, hard-working people. I might look like a thug, but don't let that fool you. I was raised with a silver spoon in my mouth, as some people would say. I never did like that coin of phrase. Anyway, we have the best people, who will aid your friend here. Trust me, we can help him. Return him to health."
"You were raised rich?" Alex asked.
Alex studied the remaining men with a suspicious eye, tried to process the new information, and as he did, the answers to his new dilemma existed in the clear details.
Hatebreed was the owner of a lithe but muscular frame that betrayed his access to a regular gym routine, immaculately pressed clothes that had no place on a high street shop peg, and a flawless complexion that only multiple skin products could produce. One thing was certain from his expensive designer labels, his educated drawl and relaxed demeanour – the man owed much to money, whether it was his mother's doting or his father's trust fund.
Slipknot, a career man who was not even in his thirties, but was already a practicing doctor, with uncanny ability and skill that Killswitch clearly had total faith in, a mutual trust developed through an existing personal relationship, one created by living in close proximity. Medical degrees take years of hard work and crippling debt, but he looked unafflicted by the stress of either, which indicated that his debts were a thing of lower-class fiction, and the stress was alleviated by the secure comfort of money. Something only the wealthy could provide for their children.
And then there was Killswitch. Alex didn't know what the guy did, or the origin of his peculiar outfit. He did conclude on one thing; only the deluded and/or stupidly rich could possibly think that particular getup was categorised as 'fashion.'
Unbelievable, he thought.
"You guys live in a gated community." Alex asked. "I don't believe it."
Slipknot replied, "It's true."
Alex folded his arms. "So, these phones … all of them, they're for your people."
Killswitch nodded. "We look after our own."
"Who all live within one walled-off town. Why do you even need phones?"
Killswitch held out a hand. "The rich are … how do you put it. Eccentric in their ways."