The Plague Series (Book 1): The Last Plague

by Rich Hawkins

  Frank’s shadow shivered. He watched the mist, expecting faces to emerge from within. He observed Florence in his peripheral vision; her head was down, the hood of her jacket over her head, scuffing her feet on the tarmac. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left the house.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t look at him.

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “That man was sick, wasn’t he?”

  “I think he was infected with something. But, yes, he was definitely sick.”

  “What does infected mean?”

  “It means he caught an illness of some kind.”

  “Like the flu?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s something worse than the flu?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Will we get sick?”

  The possibility was playing on his mind, gnawing away at him. Truthfully, he had no idea. What if it was airborne? Were they already infected?

  “We’ll be fine,” he said, hoping she didn’t notice the uneven tone of his voice.

  She looked at him for the first time in a while. “But everyone else is dying or becoming monsters. What about us? Does that mean it’s our turn soon?”

  Frank thought of Catherine waiting for him back home. How many people were dead or infected? He imagined the country teeming with bloodthirsty maniacs, and it brought him close to despair.

  “We’ll be fine,” he said again. “It’ll be sorted out.”

  The sound of gunfire crackled in the distance.

  *

  Frank led the way towards Horsham. Florence stayed by his side, but she was mostly silent. Frank knew enough about loss and mourning to understand her reaction.

  Thunder toiled within grey clouds, along with the suggestion of something else in the sky, moving in silence. Occasionally Frank found himself watching the sky in response to some perceived threat.

  They sheltered under an oak tree during a rain shower and ate lunch as they watched the downpour. Frank realised he should be at work and suddenly nothing felt real. If he’d had the energy, he would have burst into laughter. And then he wondered if he’d ever return to work and his normal life in the world before the slaughter began. His heart winced as he thought of Catherine. Did she know what was happening?

  He wanted a drink of something strong and regretted not raiding David Pulver’s whiskey collection.

  The rain stopped, but there was no sun, just grey and ashen misery colouring the countryside. At least the air felt clearer, cleaner. They walked on.

  They found what was left of a body sprawled on the grass verge at the side of the road. It had probably been a man, but it was hard to tell because nothing much remained except tatters of meat and bone rotting in the weeds. The eyes had been taken to leave gaping sockets of torn nerves and gristle.

  Florence said nothing. Maybe she was already used to such sights.

  “Let’s go,” he told her.

  She looked back at the remains as she followed him.

  Later Frank heard a deep growling coming towards them. He halted, took hold of Florence’s hand. She looked to him while he scanned the road ahead.

  “What is it?” the girl asked.

  Frank heard scraping footfalls on tarmac and gravel, beyond the bend in the road. He put one finger to his lips and shook his head, then pulled her through a gap in the hedgerow and into a field. They stayed low, crouching in wet grass behind the bristling foliage and brambles. Frank peered through the small partings in the hedgerow and out at the road.

  The footfalls became louder.

  A woman shambled into view, her crooked shoulders swaying. She was deformed, growling at the air. Ripped jeans showed glimpses of mottled flesh on her thighs. Shoes crusted with dirt and something tinged red. Spikes of black bone had torn through her blouse, colonising her shoulders and back.

  Florence stiffened beside Frank and let out a rattling breath.

  The woman sniffed the air. She wheezed from her ruined mouth, and the sound of air being pushed from her lungs was like metal scraping on metal. The spikes on her upper body seemed to quiver, as if they were linked to her respiratory system by tendrils of nerve tissue.

  Frank gripped his axe and prayed he wouldn’t have to use it.

  The woman’s mouth opened, and she turned towards the hedgerow where they hid. Her eyes were red lesions, glistening like welts. She snarled, exposing sharp teeth. The inside of her mouth was coated with black, like dental decay left to spread and thrive.

  She seemed to look directly at him, and her body went rigid like a hunting dog sighting prey.

  Frank didn’t move.

  A jet fighter flew over, the roar of its engines distracting the woman. She raised her unholy face to the sky until the jet was off in the distance and unseen. Then she lowered her head and continued down the road, disappearing from sight.

  Frank exhaled, as did Florence. They looked at each other. He waited to make sure the woman was gone before they emerged back onto the road.

  As they resumed their walk he wondered if he should go after the woman and put her out of her misery. But he could not tolerate taking another life so soon after smashing in David Pulver’s skull.

  The light was fading in the sky.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “We have to leave,” said Joel. “This place is going to implode.”

  Magnus shook his head. “We’re a long way from home and we wouldn’t last five minutes out on the streets. Do you want to die out there?”

  Ralph looked at them in turn. “We might die in here, lads.” He glanced around the classroom at the other refugees. Murmurs and disgruntled voices mixed with panicked sobs. Some children were crying. Two men argued over a bottle of water. Fear and tension filled the air.

  Everyone had seen the thing in the sky, and it terrified them.

  He felt sorry for those who were beginning to lose control. He had adjusted to the situation, for all the good it would do. A sense of acceptance gave him vague comfort. Maybe there was some kind of chemical imbalance or defect in his brain.

  You should be fucking terrified like the poor bastards in here with him. Like Joel and Magnus.

  They had been given only a few cheese crackers and a cup of water each for lunch. The police had said supplies were running low, but they would be re-supplied soon. The police had promised.

  Ralph knew a lie when he heard one.

  A loud boom from a few streets away shook the building. Someone screamed. Ralph looked at the ceiling as the light fixtures rattled. Then more gunshots rang out from nearby, followed by another muffled thump not too far away.

  The room went silent. Ralph heard the police moving around outside.

  “It’s all falling apart,” Joel said.

  Ralph shrugged. “We could make a stand here.”

  Magnus stared at him. “Make a stand? What with, harsh language? This isn’t fucking Rorke’s Drift, you idiot.”

  “Didn’t you want to stay here, Magnus?”

  “Yes, because it’s worse out on the streets. We’re safe here. The police will defend us. They have the guns.”

  “Fair enough,” Ralph said. “Let’s go outside and see what’s happening.”

  Another burst of gunfire made Joel jump. Mothers comforted their children. Ralph turned to see Susan Blake sat alone, holding her dog to her chest. His eyes met hers, and she gave him a little smile, but her face was drawn and pale, and the smile didn’t last.

  Ralph wanted to help her, but he had to look after Joel and Magnus first. He was sorry.

  They went outside. Refugees filled the car park at the front of the school. The police did their best to calm them, but panic and fear were more persuasive than mere words.

  Ralph, Magnus and Joel lurked at the back of the crowd. There was no path to the front, although Ralph could see through gaps in the scrum of bodies to the road beyond the gates. Fires within the town lit the low ceiling of cloud above. Automa
tic gunfire rose from the streets. Babies wailed.

  An army jeep pulled up outside the gates and a soldier in desert fatigues jumped out, cradling a rifle. He walked to the fence and spoke to one of the police officers. The officer’s face sagged as he listened.

  “That doesn’t look good,” Ralph said.

  The soldier ran back to the jeep and it took off down the road. The police officer relayed whatever he’d been told to his sergeant. The sergeant listened and nodded then turned to the crowd and spoke in an effort to get their attention.

  At first the crowd didn’t listen, but they did when he fired his submachine gun into the air.

  Shocked and wide-eyed, the crowd quietened and looked at the sergeant. He was a big man, with broad shoulders and a large gut straining against his shirt.

  “Please listen – what I have to say is very important. I’ve just been informed that the infected have breached the Safe Zone.” He paused to let the crowd process the information. “Please remain calm. The army will be along very soon to evacuate you all. You are all safe here. We will protect you until the army arrives.”

  “We need to leave now!” said a woman at the front of the crowd.

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t leave on your own. We cannot guarantee your protection out there.”

  “Can you guarantee our protection in here?” asked a man.

  “Yes, we guarantee your safety.” It was another lie, Ralph could tell. “You must remain here until the transports arrive.”

  “Fuck off!” said another man. This sentiment was echoed by a few others.

  The other police officers appeared anxious and eyed the crowd, their weapons half-raised.

  “Please remain calm,” the sergeant said. “There is no need to panic.”

  Screams came from up the street from the direction the army jeep had come.

  The crowd surged towards the car park fence, almost overwhelming the police. Ralph kept Joel and Magnus close to him. He formed his hands into fists.

  The refugees screamed and cried, clamouring in their panic. Ralph was jostled by the people around him. Sharp elbows dug into his flanks. A woman with too much neck fat looked at him with saucer-eyes.

  “Oh shit,” Joel was repeating. “Oh shit, oh shit.”

  The infected were on their way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Frank and Florence arrived at the outskirts of Horsham just before five pm. The world was turning dark. Dead street lamps loomed over them.

  Jets roared unseen overhead, their passage followed by a moment of silence before multiple flashes of light and booming detonations. The closest Frank had ever been to a war zone was watching news reports from Afghanistan. This was surreal. This wasn’t supposed to happen here. Not in Britain. Not in England.

  Soon afterwards they passed the first of the bodies.

  Most of them had bullet wounds. Faces frozen into snarls and stretched grimaces. Some corpses were bent into unnatural angles, bones protruding from layers of meat and yellow fat. Stinking cadavers all charred and twisted. Grinning faces. The stink of blackened meat on a grill.

  Florence said nothing as they picked their way through the dead.

  “Don’t be scared,” Frank told her. “We’ll find some help.”

  A fire burned on the next street. The air tasted acrid, scraping the flesh of his throat. A car alarm was blaring from deeper within the town. Florence kept her hood up and covered her mouth and nose with one hand.

  Frank’s eyes flicked between both sides of the street. No one came out of the houses, some of which were damaged by fire. Front doors hung open. Scorched walls and blackened lawns. He sensed faces leering out from the windows, but when he turned no one was there. He raised the axe. Broken glass crunched under his shoes.

  They walked amongst scattered suitcases and bags on the road and the pavements. Abandoned cars impeded their way. Frank contemplated stealing one of the cars to travel into town, but he was worried they’d be held up by roadblocks and other obstructions, plus driving around was a good way to get noticed by things he didn’t want noticing them.

  “Where’s everyone gone?” said Florence. “The ones who aren’t dead…”

  “Maybe they’ve been evacuated.”

  Turning onto the next street they found a body draped across a car bonnet and rendered featureless by the ferocity of its death.

  They ducked instinctively at a burst of gunfire. Frank pulled Florence closer to his side and scanned the road ahead. Smoke in the air gave the impression of figures moving within a grey-white veil.

  They passed a dead man in a Rolls Royce, slumped over the steering wheel. Ahead of them was a fire engine left abandoned across the road. Its crew were nowhere to be seen. Long gone.

  Weird animal sounds, shrieks and wailing, drifted from the nearby streets.

  The town was being overrun.

  *

  The concussion of thunder in the sky was like mountains colliding.

  They encountered more corpses as they moved further into Horsham. Frank was past the point of trying to protect Florence from the sight of them. He kept trying to call Catherine. His heart palpitated when he thought of her. He squeezed the phone until his hand hurt.

  Florence pulled on his jacket sleeve, and when he looked down at her, she pointed up the street. A car had been abandoned across the road.

  Frank pocketed his phone, resisting the urge to throw it away. He flexed his hands on the axe as he approached the car, Florence following a few paces behind him. Wet sucking sounds grew louder. He tried to peer behind the car, and then went to say something, but the words stuck in his throat.

  A girl was crouching over a body in the road. The sucking sounds were caused by the girl feeding on the corpse’s face. There was just enough light to discern her torn pyjamas.

  Florence saw the girl and whimpered.

  The girl raised her head, detaching from the dead body with a damp sound that curdled Frank’s guts. He pulled Florence behind the car and put his free hand over her mouth before he glanced over the bonnet.

  The girl looked around, her gleaming feral eyes sweeping the road. Her face was covered with blood. Once she had been a little girl with a family; a mum and a dad and dreams of boy bands. Now she was a carrion eater.

  While she returned to her meal, Frank and Florence went around her, treading as lightly as they could. He watched the girl all the way until they were clear.

  Farther on they passed more bodies. Some of the dead were wearing army fatigues. Crows and magpies picked through the wreckage and remains. Every dark corner and shadow was a threat. Small fires burned. Shop windows had been smashed. All Frank could smell was blood and smoke, and the deeper they went into the ruined town the more they saw deformed and mutated people roaming the streets in baying packs, shrieking and screaming and dragging flayed bodies behind them. He noticed others lurking in shadowed alleyways and gardens, gibbering and wailing. Some of them stood staring at the ground or at the sky.

  Frank saw people chased down and ripped apart. Some of them begged until the very end, when their throats were mauled by razor teeth and busy mouths.

  Frank and Florence hid behind cars and walls. They hid wherever they could. Death would not come quick if they were caught. There were monsters everywhere, walking nightmares wearing the faces of men.

  When the streets became too dangerous to navigate they took shelter in the dark doorway of an empty book shop and cowered in the shadows. Frank kept watch, part of him absolutely sure they’d be found by the slick-skinned figures that skittered upon the pavements.

  The night was filled with screams and plaintive cries of hunger. Gunfire nearby. Florence was trembling and crying. A man shouted in the distance. Frank looked up, expecting some grinning monster to fall upon them.

  “It’ll be okay,” he whispered, more to himself than the girl. “It’ll be okay.” If they were discovered, he decided he’d kill her with the axe, quick to the neck, to spare her the unbearable pai
n of being eaten alive. He would save that torture for himself.

  Dark shapes approached them.

  Frank raised the axe.

  Florence sobbed.

  Four soldiers, faces hidden by gas masks, appeared before them, rifles raised.

  Frank stared at them, his mouth open, and lowered the axe.

  “Are you infected?” one of the soldiers asked.

  He shook his head and waited for a bullet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Even behind the muffling effect of his gas mask, Corporal Guppy’s voice was deep and commanding, whilst the other soldiers – Privates Sibbick, Gawen and Pike – sounded as though they were barely out of their teens. However, each of them killed the infected with the instinctive skill of professional soldiers.

  The infected, Frank thought. That’s what they’re called.

  “Keep moving,” Guppy said. He and Private Gawen jogged either side of Frank and Florence. Private Sibbick was on point, his SA80 trained on the road ahead. Private Pike guarded the rear.

  Sibbick raised his hand. They stopped behind him, hidden behind the corner of a house. Florence was breathing hard.

  “Is she okay?” asked Guppy, nodding at the girl.

  “Yeah, but she’s seen a lot,” said Frank. “Too much.”

  “Are you her father?”

  Frank hesitated, swallowed down his sore throat and looked away. He felt Guppy’s eyes on his face. The word was out of his mouth before he realised he’d said it.

  “Yes.”

  Guppy didn’t push any further. He turned to Sibbick, who was peering around the corner. “What do you see, Private?”

  Sibbick dipped his head back behind the wall and glanced at Guppy. “A single infected standing in the middle of the road. His head’s bowed. Looks like he’s daydreaming.”