Don't Fear The Reaper

by Lex Sinclair

  Seizing the perfect opportunity, John ran full pelt to the kiosk and grabbed all the petrol cans he could from the bottom shelves. By the time he’d done four journeys there were no more left. He opened the rear doors of the transit and pushed all the cans towards the far end in the corner. Then he upended three two-litre bottles of Strongbow cider and filled them up with petrol and hauled them into the back of the transit. From the kiosk he collected all the ready-to-eat food in the refrigerator section. There wasn’t much left, just two packs of bacon and lettuce sandwiches, and a pack of Fajita wraps. He also collected four two-litre bottles of water.

  When he loaded them onto the van, John winced at the dull ache writhing in the small of his back. He slammed the rear doors, the noise reverberating off the roof of the filling station, slid behind the wheel and raced over to where Natalie was waiting for him holding not one, but two trolleys. The glass enclosure that was used as a portico kept her out of sight until he brought the transit to a skidding halt.

  Even from the driver’s seat he could see the chagrin smile on Natalie’s harried face. He swung the door open and dropped down, holding his hands up, palms facing her. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Bit of a delay. But I might’ve saved us some time, and got some more food and drink.’

  Natalie shook her head at him in disdain.

  Panting, John followed her as they entered the store and saw such horror in all its explicit detail…

  *

  Vincent Lawton had moved from Birmingham where he worked as a bouncer for the local nightclubs. He also trained at a local YMCA gym devotedly. He’d left home in Cardiff, Wales, when his mother caught him in possession of steroids. She’d given her son a choice: either she called the police and report him before he ended up dying of a heart attack or he moved out. Until then she bought his lies about how he was strapped for cash and that his security guard position at HMV didn’t pay very good wages. Evidently that didn’t appear to be the case… at all.

  Realising the seriousness of his mother’s ultimatum, Vince opted for the latter option. He continued with the course of steroids he’d bought, but now he reduced his dosage and saved money to rent a flat. The gym owner gave him discounts on high quality protein shakes and let him train a couple of times for free during the week. Eventually, Vince had built himself up to a steady 220 pound all muscle build. And at five feet ten inches that was a stout frame.

  Like everyone else in the world, Vince’s mundane existence got turned upside down when Armageddon had been officially announced worldwide. He’d caught a train back to Cardiff and then helped his mother – who didn’t even greet him when he arrived – pack her clothes and some belongings and help his younger sister, Beth get her suitcases ready. Then together they got onto the M4 and headed to Grandma’s house in Port Talbot.

  Before he departed Birmingham, for what was likely to be the last time, Vince decided to see his friend who had been extricated from his duties in Iraq and returned home.

  Jason Park returned home, reciting tales he’d heard that had taken place about a mysterious fog with a strange pulsing green light that had swept through the Middle East. One night in a barracks in Iran a commanding officer of the U.S. military had gone mad – there were no other words to describe it. Armed with his AK-47 he’d gone into the sleeping quarters and gunned down soldiers in their hammocks until an officer put a slug in the back of his head 100 yards away. In total twenty-eight soldiers lost their lives when they’d been resting at what most people would consider the safest place to be.

  As tough as he was, Vince Lawton didn’t have what it took to join the army. That was way beyond his bravery. To beat an unarmed, skinny, gaunt fellow made him feel indestructible. But really that was easy to what Jason Park endured. A punch could and had caused a lot of damage. However, most people he took care of only need to be seized by the collar and dragged out of the nightclub. The half a dozen who had tried it on he grabbed in reverse headlock and threw into the gutter. Most of the men were drunk, anyway. Their punches were wild and uncoordinated. A bullet though. All it took was one accurate shot from a sniper you couldn’t even sense let alone see and it was lights out.

  Ta ta. So long.

  Nevertheless, what really gave Vince the willies more than anything else was that he’d seen the exact same fog that Jason had described. He couldn’t recall the precise date. What he did recall was it was a Sunday night when the thickest, creepiest looking fog clouded everything in sight. He couldn’t even see one of the solar streetlights either on his street or across the vista. He’d been in his bedroom training his deltoids with his 8kg and 15kg dumbbells. If Vince had remembered to close the shutters he wouldn’t have had the misfortune of this seemingly unnatural fog or the green luminescence pulsing in his eyes even after he’d turned away.

  Furthermore, he recalled a few stories around the UK at that time of similar madness that Jason told of that had befallen a phalanx of American comrades. Although Vince wasn’t an avid or causal viewer of the news either on TV, radio or the papers, he did recall a story about how a man had slit the throats of his wife and two sons, and then went night prowling for other victims. In total another six residents of his street had died at his hands before a man had shot him dead with his Remington shotgun.

  There was also another story in Leeds a day or two later regarding an infant schoolteacher who’d set fire to the junior school. Children and teachers alike tried to escape but quickly realised their fate when every emergency exit had been barricaded externally.

  Jason told him to be ‘real fuckin’ careful.’ Perplexed, Vince asked him to elaborate on this nebulous remark. To which Jason said, ‘Somethin’s going down. I don’t mean like a government cover-up or any other type of propaganda shit, either. Somethin’ fuckin’ bad is going down and come this meteorite shower anyone not wearin’ two million pounds’ worth of sun-block is gonna have a real bad day, get it?’

  Vince worried now, not relishing the haunted expression in his friend’s eyes. Jason had seen comrades he’d been laughing with and messing about with hours earlier get blown to bits right in front of him, all because they had the misfortune to step on a landmine. He never talked about the deaths of his comrades, and had Vince not known what he did for a living he’d never have guessed he was an army officer. He didn’t come across as one either in his demeanour or what he said. But the whole strange fog episode had shaken him to his boots and threatened to suck his soul into oblivion the way the meteorite shower threatened to blow Earth to oblivion.

  Vince told him he was clueless as to how he could defend himself against such madness. Jason knew in his heart of hearts that as brawny as his friend was, his muscles, no matter how well-defined, couldn’t prevent similar atrocities to the ones he’d mentioned taking place. He invited Vince to his home and beckoned him to his bedroom. Once the door was closed, Jason got down on all fours and reached under the bed and retrieved what he’d stolen from his base.

  He explained to Vince what the weapon was – a L86A2 (LSW) assault rifle. According to Jason it was the standard light weapon support for field officers. ‘Its features,’ he went on, ‘a longer barrel, a bipod and a shoulder strap for better range and accuracy. It’s equipped with a 30-round magazine. This bad as mother is capable of high rate accurate fire at ranges of 1,000 meters.’

  Along with four hundred calibre bullets, Vince left with the assault rifle concealed under his jacket and the boxes of ammo bulging out of his pockets.

  At the door Jason said in a sombre tone, ‘If we get through this – although I don’t see how – I want you to get rid of that. If you’re caught with it any mention of me and I will make it my last mission to hunt you down and blow your head apart like a fuckin’ grapefruit. You got that?’

  Vince nodded acquiescence and assured Jason if he was caught with it his name would never be mentioned, not even if they threatened him with life in prison.

  On 23 December 2006 at 11:09pm Vince lay on his grandma’s sofa, tossing and turnin
g, doing his utmost to get comfortable without turning and falling onto the living room floor in the process. He’d finished his four cans of Carling beer and needed another piss. Cussing inwardly, he crept upstairs and entered the bathroom and emptied his bladder.

  Once he’d finished, Vince opted not to flush the toilet as the noise might wake up Beth, his mother and his grandma. He stepped out of the bathroom and flicked the light switch off and was consumed by the darkness.

  He froze…

  At the foot of the stairs Death waited for him to descend. Vince’s vision became dotted with bright sparks, miniature bolts of lightning. His cheeks prickled with static as the blood drained from his face. The entity standing with its broad cloaked back to the door, illuminated only by the chinks of light creeping through the apertures in the drapes, stood expectantly.

  Vince blindly reached out for the banister, gripped it and attempted to move his trembling legs forward off the landing and onto the top step. He still wore his socks as his feet protruded the blanket he’d been sleeping under. His leading left leg slid out beneath him and threatened to topple him. Vince flailed his hefty arms and managed to clutch one of the spools. His wrist twisted and the rest of his anatomy pivoted until he found himself on his bum, sitting on the fourth step down. Pure luck had prevented him from falling, for he’d not anticipated his current position. Seated on the stairs having sprained his wrist left Vince in a vulnerable position, if the intruder chose to attack.

  Much to his surprise however, the huge shape remained motionless.

  Vince’s eyes bugged at the sight of the razor sharp scythe in the towering figure’s grasp. He knew even in the dimness that the shape wasn’t a Halloween costume or some kind of special effect. The entity was legitimate. And had he not seconds ago emptied his bladder Vince didn’t have any qualms admitting he’d have pissed himself with outright fear.

  Nevertheless, as frightened as he was, Vince got to a vertical base and gingerly came down the stairs. The shape with a hood that concealed its face indicated that Vince should enter the living room.

  The robed figure not of this world or any other for that matter never spoke, yet Vince Lawton understood its ultimatum it gave him, which made his mother’s ultimatum gracious and compassionate in comparison.

  *

  The bishop of the South Wales district didn’t know a whole lot about guns. He could distinguish the difference between a pistol and handgun and a rifle from a machine gun, but that was about as far as his knowledge went. Guns and conflict went hand in hand. The same went for folks who carried knives. Some stated it was for protection. However, the bishop was of the opinion that if no one had access to any firearms then no one would get shot by accident or in cold blood.

  When his bulging eyes absorbed the scene before him, he felt his heart trying to escape into his throat and pop out of his mouth. Nadine whimpered. Her breathing instantly became erratic and if she didn’t control herself she’d suffer with palpations.

  In front of him his eyes sent a harrowing message to his brain.

  Massacre!

  The culprit stood wielding a no-nonsense assault rifle held close to his side fitted to him with a shoulder strap. The ageing bishop flinched when the first wisps of cordite assailed his flaring nostrils. The weapon-wielding maniac was built like a brick shithouse. His granite constructed chest heaved with every breath. Then, pivoting, John fought the suffocating sense of nausea and trepidation, as the barrel where blue-grey smoke coiled and dissipated into the air around them was pointed directly at him.

  John snatched his hands off the shopping cart and took a couple of steps backwards. ‘Easy,’ he said in a strained voice. ‘Easy.’ He enunciated the word in a manner of self-defence and prudent advice.

  Bloodied carcasses lay sprawled on the linoleum flooring reflecting the fluorescent lights running across the vast ceiling out of John’s peripheral vision.

  Nadine clutched her heaving bosom with both hands, tears running down her face, shaking her head, refusing to let in what her eyes had already registered. ‘No. No. No. No. Please God! Please! Don’t kill us. What’s the point anyway? W-We’ll be d-d-dead pretty s-soon anyway.’

  The murderer’s eyes were bloodshot. His arms looked as though someone had been pumping air into them they were so swollen. Veins crisscrossed across sculpted muscles in the triceps and biceps area. In spite of his brain on the verge of shutting down and permitting John to lose consciousness, he recalled watching Arnold Schwarzenegger in the 1987 film Predator. This gunman’s arms were stretching the taut flesh. The only difference being Arnold had been playing the part of the main protagonist whereas this man had the eyes of a chilling antagonist.

  ‘S-Son…,’ the bishop began, not at all sure how he was going to proceed, ‘what’ve you done?’ His eyes swept the stained floor where the carcases of those civilians who had attempted fleeing lay at impossible angles. Some were bundled on top of each other in their desperate bid to escape with their lives intact.

  Keeping the smoking no bullshit weapon aimed directly at him the gunman said, ‘They were all infected. Every last one of them. Rodents. Vermin Cretin.’

  John blinked away the sweat trickling into his eyes and focused. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No one is infected. That’s not true. People were gathering some food and water so they could hole up somewhere safe until the meteor shower is over. People were scared… terrified. No one was infected. Please. Please, put down the gun. All my wife and I want is the same as these poor souls – food and water, that’s all. We’re gonna be in and out. No trouble. No fuss. Okay?’

  The murderer shook his head slowly, in defiance. ‘The fog infected them. They all went crazy and started killing each other. Families butchered for no reason, other than pure madness.’

  The bishop recalled the news headlines leading up to the eve of Christmas 2006 and had to concur to a certain degree with what the madman stated. However, he also wanted to get out of here alive and without any injuries. The taciturn demeanour gave off the aura that of contaminated soul. Lost in the worst ways one can ever be lost.

  ‘If that is true – that these folks were in fact, as you said, infected – then you too must be infected. What you have done is pure madness, wouldn’t you agree?’

  John edged closer past the helpdesk and stood over the threshold relishing the draught from A/C. His mop of lank, grey hair tickled his damp brow. ‘Listen to me, friend,’ John said in a soothing voice. ‘Put the weapon down. What you’ve done is unthinkable, but in these terrible circumstances in time you might be forgiven. But listen to me and do as I suggest. Enough people have died this year and today, right here than is necessary. Tomorrow – or whenever the meteorites strike the planet – more will die again. There’s no need for this. Really there isn’t.’

  The gunman raised the loaded L86A2 and aimed the long barrel directly at the slightly overweight man edging towards him, hands up in a surrendering gesture, blinking every time a bead of sweat dribbled into his squished eyes.

  John could see the gunman noticing all of these intricate details. When he got within three, five feet of the gunman and stared fixedly into his placid, crimson eyes, doing his utmost to plead with his conscience, John understood in doing so he’d made a fatal error. Knowing it would be his final breath, he craned his head over his shoulder to his tear-stricken wife. He committed every aspect of her face and body to memory, feeling the pang of sorrow punching his jackhammer heart with iron fists of fury. ‘Nadine, run! RUN!’ he bellowed.

  By the time he registered the deafening crack of the gunfire, Bishop John Hayes’ world had blacked out.

  *

  Screaming at the sight of her husband’s form being yanked down by gravity and his jowly face slapping the unyielding surface, Nadine whirled around and on pure adrenaline sprinted for the transit.

  Either luck or fate had made John leave the keys in the ignition. Nadine turned them and the motor roared to life. Without any hesitation, she rem
oved the handbrake, slammed the gearstick from neutral into first and stamped her foot on the accelerator pedal at the same time bullets punched grey holes into the bodywork.

  Instinctively she kept her head down but not too far that she couldn’t see over the dashboard. She cried out in vexation and panic when the front left of the transit clipped the rear left of a Skoda and shattered the brake light. Numerous bullets dented the bodywork of the rear doors. But now Nadine had put some distance between herself and the maniacal madman. She shot down the speed ramp, past the filling station and the car wash and had to brake otherwise she’d go head on over the roundabout and into the beautifully decorated flowerbed.

  Using her entire bodyweight she steered to the left and raced down the road through a red light and kept going. She overtook two motorcyclists and very nearly ended up colliding head-on with a woman driving a Citroen.

  As terrified and shaken as she was Nadine rode the main road up the incline and slowed down when she reached the entrance of the church and ascended the gravely path, listening to the tyres crushing the stones further into the macadam.

  When she brought the transit to a halt and killed the engine it was then Nadine screamed at the top of her lungs and cried. She cried and screamed, and cried and screamed. Nadine didn’t stop until she passed out and she collapsed against the steering wheel and slumped down on the passenger seat.

  *

  Vincent Lawton remained motionless in the Tesco supermarket car park scanning his surroundings. There was no one in sight. He exhaled through is nostrils, disappointed that he hadn’t reacted quicker. The woman had escaped.

  Still wielding the L86A2 assault rifle, Vince pivoted and ambled back through the car park into the store. He gagged at the rank stench of spilled blood. It made him dizzy. It was only after being outside in the fresh air and then returning that he noticed how awful the pungent smell actually was.