The Peeling Trilogy

by Iain Rob Wright

  “You did this.”

  Jeremy turned his head away from the television and saw Kara moving out from one of the room’s shadowy corners. Her face had peeled away from her skull and her snarling mouth made her look like a vengeful demon.

  “I did what?” Jeremy asked her.

  “You infected Carol, and you infected me. You are the one that should be dead.”

  “You don’t know that I have it. You don’t know anything.”

  “Yes, I do. I haven’t been around anyone since the whole thing started – no one, except for you.”

  Jeremy thought about earlier in the week when he’d popped round to see Kara at her home – popped round for his weekly booty call, and to warn her about the virus. “I’m sorry,” he said, worrying that she could be right; that he could be responsible for his wife’s death, and others.

  “Quiet!” Kara stepped further out of the shadows. She was holding a large carving knife from the kitchen. “I don’t want to hear you anymore.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Okay.” He made no move to get away, unsure whether Kara even had it in her to do him harm. In normal circumstances, he thought not, but these were not normal circumstances, and she was most certainly not her usual self.

  “You’ve been fucking us both for a long time, but now it seems like you really got the job done. You’re a murderer, Jerry. If Carol and I had never let you near us then we would be okay, we would be healthy.”

  “Half the world has the peeling, Kara. You would have gotten it anyway, one way or another. Carol is my wife; you really think I would infect her purposefully?”

  Kara came closer with the knife. Still he did not move. She growled at him, blood falling from her lips and covering the exposed bone of her lower jaw. “Men like you have been a sickness on women since time began. Women have always suffered because of misogynistic perverts like you.”

  “You’re talking nonsense. The peeling is killing as many men as women. It’s just luck of the draw who gets infected.”

  Kara came at him with the knife. “Lies! You did this. You killed us!”

  Jeremy was about to dodge the knife attack, but at the last second he decided to remain in place. He thought about seeing Carol again as the knife entered his chest and forced him back like a punch. He fell backwards onto the sofa, blade jutting out from between his ribs, and ended up facing the television. Joey and Chandler were playing foosball in a world that knew not of such horrors as the peeling. Jeremy thought it was a nice way to go, and by the time he bled out, he almost managed to kid himself that the world was still had a chance.

  Almost.

  THE PEELING: Book 2 (The Stadium)

  By Iain Rob Wright

  Brett rummaged through the defrosting contents of the grimy industrial freezer and frowned. The police or the army, or whoever, had finally cut the power in the area and the stacked supplies of cheap burger patties and hotdogs were now starting to thaw. They would go bad in a matter of days. The French fries would fare a while longer, but they wouldn’t last forever either. It made Brett realise that, at some point, the situation he was in would have to change. Birmingham’s TyreBayDirect Football Stadium wouldn’t provide them refuge forever. Eventually Brett and all the others would have to face the outside again.

  When The Peeling first hit, people had been happy to lock themselves inside their homes and wait it out. You could see a person with the infection a mile off – rotting skin and blistering flesh pulling back to reveal bone – and people assumed that so long as they kept themselves isolated, they would be okay. When news came out that the victims of the plague – those suffering with the rot – were not the contagious ones, things changed. It quickly became public knowledge that the infection was transmitted via random carriers – from among those who displayed no outward symptoms but carried the disease all the same. The healthy population were the ones to be afraid of.

  Brett hadn’t paid much attention to the news back then. He’d decided there were more constructive things to do then to wallow in the misery on television. A local action-group had formed amongst the residents of Smethwick, the Birmingham district where Brett had lived, and he had been only too happy to join them. With the blessing of the local authorities, the group of concerned citizens had been granted permission to temporarily leave the quarantines of their homes and congregate in a public area. The leader of the committee, Reverend Long, had chosen the TyreBayDirect Stadium – home of the local lower-division football team. The elderly vicar was a big football fan.

  A military escort had accompanied the Reverend whilst he visited the homes of the nearby parish, collecting Christians, Muslims, and atheists alike. Many did not open their doors, for fear of allowing the pestilence inside, but many others did and were relieved at the opportunity to leave. Brett had been one of those people. He’d joined up eagerly with the growing group, glad to once again have company after his parents had died. But even back then, he had been questioning himself about whether it was the right thing to do.

  Along the way to the stadium, the military had been rough with the group of civilians and those seeking to join them. Brett had seen soldiers exercise lethal force several times, especially against any infected people trying to run towards the group. Brett had panicked at the sight of the already-bleeding bodies being ripped apart by automatic rifle-fire, and so had most others in the group, but Reverend Long had raised his hands to address the crowd and endeavoured to keep them calm. He told them their focus needed to be on helping those still within helping. There would be time to mourn the dead and the atrocities committed on them later. Brett had been uneasy around the military ever since then.

  “How we doing, Brett?”

  Brett turned around to see Emily, with her bright ginger hair and dorky spectacles. He shrugged at the girl and told her the truth. No point in lying. “The food is all defrosting,” he said. “It’ll go bad eventually. Luckily it’s all processed rubbish and not the fresh stuff, or we’d have even less time to eat it. Can’t believe those assholes cut the power. What are they trying to do?”

  Emily adjusted her spectacles and glanced into the freezer behind him. “Perhaps you should shut the door then and keep in the cold as long as we can then. I’m sure everything will work out okay. They’ll probably give us back the power soon.”

  Brett sighed. Emily, like many other people in the group, had not yet grasped the seriousness of their situation. They still thought the squads of riflemen surrounding the stadium were there to keep everybody safe, and that the power cut was due to some sort of technical hiccup. Brett knew the truth, though. The stadium had been quarantined, and any attempt to leave would be met with a bullet. They were just ants now, stuck inside a bottle hoping somebody would take off the lid.

  When the news had broken, that the infection passed via the healthy and not the infected, the world’s dynamic had changed. Suddenly, the brief freedom Brett and the others in the group had been granted was eliminated. Suddenly, they were the ones that were dangerous and not the sickly-skinned lunatics rotting away in their homes. An Army Officer had informed Reverend Long that his group were to remain inside the stadium until further notice, and make no attempts to leave. It was made clear that the consequences would be severe if anyone made a run for it.

  That had been three days ago. Now, after another horrible night’s sleep on the cement floor of the East Stand’s kitchen, Brett had been placed in charge of the food reserves. Luckily, the stadium had several snack bars that all backed on to the same kitchen and staff areas. The supplies were allocated to provide for the fifteen-thousand football fans that would fill the stadium’s seats every weekend. There was plenty of food, but nearly all of it was perishable. What made Brett mad was how people were tearing into chocolate bars and crisp packets like they were having a party. Something about being able to help themselves to bottles of pop and cans of cider made them feel unadulterated. It was the mob mentality of looting, and it seemed to make them happy. But what they didn’
t seem to realise was that every mouthful of snack food they ate now was a mouthful they wouldn’t have later when they really needed it. They were eating the none-perishable items first, and that had to stop. It would have to be cold burgers all around for the next few days.

  “So, what you up to today?” Emily asked him as if they were buddies.

  What a dumb question. What the hell does she think I’m going to be doing today? Nothing. Same as yesterday and the day before that. We’re all trapped in this goddamn place with nothing to do but go crazy.

  “I don’t know,” he answered testily. “Guess I’ll see if the Reverend needs anything done.”

  Emily giggled at him and bopped him on the arm. “Are you always so work work work? You should let others worry about things for a day. You and me are just teenagers; we should leave it to the adults.”

  “I’m twenty-three, Emily, and this isn’t a game. Things are bad. Those soldiers outside will shoot anyone that tries to leave, which eventually we will be forced to do. Half the country is dead or dying, and we might just be infected with the thing that killed them all. We’re fucked.”

  Emily winced at his language and adjusted her spectacles. Her freckled cheeks went a shade redder. “No need to speak to me like that. I’m just being friendly.” The girl walked away and, if Brett was honest, he didn’t even care. Emily was a pest as far as he was concerned. She needed to get her head in the game. So did everybody else.

  Reverend Long would probably be at his usual place, up at the centre circle of the football pitch, so Brett headed there now. The football pitch was outside, with the stadium built around it on all sides, comprised of four stands. The snack bar and kitchen was in the East Stand, which also housed a bank of televisions that had kept everyone informed about the ongoing situation until the power had ceased that morning. Last anybody had heard was that the UK’s quarantine procedures had been increased indefinitely, until a screening process was put into place.

  Brett took one of the several flights of cement steps leading up to the pitch and the stadium seating. The dull sunshine hit him as he rose to the top. Birds chirped from the rafters as if all was right with the world. How wrong they were. In the centre of the pitch, Reverend Long conducted one of his regular sermons that were as much about organisation and survival as they were religion. People looked to the holy man as their leader by default, but Brett had his suspicions that the man was out of his depth. People were scared and Reverend Long was doing his best to comfort them, but he wasn’t trained to deal with a situation like this.

  But then who the hell is?

  “Ah, young Brett. How are things in the pantry?”

  Brett took the final few steps across the football pitch and placed himself in front of the Reverend, so that their conversation was private from the other people gathered around. “We have plenty of food, Reverend, but most of it will go bad in only a few days. The freezer’s still pretty cold at the moment, but with the power off...”

  Reverend Long placed a hand on Brett’s shoulder and gave him a warm smile. “The lord will provide, young Brett. Do not fret.”

  Brett sighed. “So what’s next? Any news from outside?”

  “I spoke with Captain Lewis this morning. His men still won’t allow us to leave – in fact they wouldn’t even let me near the turnstiles. I had to shout out through the entrance like a hooligan.”

  “They can’t keep us in here forever. It’s not right.”

  “I agree. Fortunately, so does Captain Lewis. He has assured me that he is doing everything he can to move things along and get us out of here. We just need to be patient.”

  “Bullshit,” said someone from behind Brett. It was Ethan. Ethan was a pudgy businessman and local property developer. He was well known in the West Midlands and Brett hadn’t liked the man from the moment they’d met.

  “There’s little need for such language, Ethan,” said Reverend Long.

  “Like Hell there isn’t. Do you honestly believe that professional thug and his band of mercenaries are ever going to let us out? They’ve got every exit covered. Our choices are to starve in here or face a bullet in the chest.”

  “Young Brett here has just assured me that we are perfectly okay, food-wise.”

  “For now,” said Ethan. “But we can’t live on dodgy hamburgers forever. We need to get out of here, back to our homes.”

  More like your cushy mansion, thought Brett, but he couldn’t deny that the businessman’s concerns were on par with his own. It was almost as if Reverend Long had chosen to interpret the food report how he’d wanted. Maybe he was seeing other things through rose-coloured spectacles as well.

  “What do you suggest, Ethan?” Brett asked. “If you have a solution, I’d love to hear it.”

  “We fight our way out. There could only be a dozen soldiers out there. There’re almost fifty of us.”

  Brett shook his head and laughed. “That’s ridiculous. They’ll rip us to shreds before we even make it ten feet. And it’s not just the army out there anyway; there’s a load of police as well.”

  “The police aren’t armed. It’s only the soldiers we need to worry about. We can take them, I’m telling you. I’m not the only one that thinks so, either.”

  Reverend Long placed a hand between them and halted the conversation. “Please, Ethan. Violence will accomplish nothing. We are all men here, inside the stadium and out. We must not fight one another during these trying times.”

  “Oh, stick a sock in it, old man. Jesus isn’t going to save us. Everything is an utter mess and those men outside are only interested in their own wellbeing. We can all die for all they care. There’s been so much death recently that we’d just be another statistic. It’s them or us, Reverend. You can keep your useless God for yourself.”

  “Calm the fuck down,” said Brett. “If it’s them or us, then perhaps you should stop turning people against each other. I agree with the Reverend; the time for violence is a long way off yet.”

  “Perhaps, but believe me that, before we know it, it will be the only option left.” With that Ethan walked away and reintegrated with the throng of people that covered the halfway point of the pitch.

  “Asshole!”

  “Forgive him,” Reverend Long said. “Worry makes men mask their fear with anger.”

  Brett shrugged. “Maybe, but we don’t need people like him right now. Things are bad enough. We all need to stick together.”

  “You’re wise beyond your years, young Brett. Perhaps you could do me a favour?”

  “Of course. What’s up?”

  “Captain Lewis has made a request that we make a list of everybody here; names and addresses. They wish to inform people’s families, and also want to know how many of us there are in here. I’m assuming it may well have to do with them getting us some supplies.”

  It’s also a great way to keep tabs on us.

  “Okay,” Brett said. “I’ll go get started.”

  ###

  The attempt to take down people’s names and addresses was met with a lot of hostility. The men and women inside the stadium still did not really know one another and the thought of giving away their personal details to a stranger was something they were wary of, regardless of the fact that they no longer had homes, possessions, or bank accounts to even worry about. But with a little bit of perseverance, and a shedload of patience, Brett managed to overcome most people’s objections and get their details. His list was now over fifty names long. Things had been going pretty smoothly – that was until it was Ethan’s turn.

  “Go screw yourself, kid.”

  Brett sighed and decided to hold out the pen and paper anyway. “Ethan, I’m done arguing with you today. Can you just help me out, please? I just need your address and surname.”

  Ethan shoved the paper back at him. “You know how I feel about those thugs outside. I’m not telling you a thing. You know who else used to take lists? Nazis.”

  A bout of concerned whispering broke out amongst th
e people gathered nearby. They were all huddled together, as if for protection.

  “This isn’t Hitler’s Germany, dude. This is England, so stop trying to scare everyone. They just want people’s names so that they know how many supplies we need.”

  “Then just give them a number. Tell them that there’s one-hundred men and woman in here to be fed.”

  Brett frowned. “There’s not that many of us here.”

  Ethan looked at Brett as if he were a fool. “No shit, Sherlock. They don’t need to know that, though, do they? The more people they think are in here, the more food they will give us – and the less likely they are to attack us.”

  The man has a point, thought Brett, but there was a flaw in his thinking. “Well, wouldn’t it be better if we said there were less of us than there are. That way if they do launch an attack they’ll underestimate our strength.”

  Ethan’s face contorted for a split second, as if the notion of being second-guessed by a twenty-three year old was tantamount to blasphemy. Then the man cracked a smile and patted Brett on the back. “That’s good thinking, kid. You should be using that brain to have more ideas like that, instead of running around after that geriatric preacher. We need to get ourselves ready.”

  “You make it sound as if we’re going to war.”

  Ethan stared Brett in the eye. “It’s about time people realised that we are.”

  Brett sighed and walked away. There was no point trying to force Ethan and his group to give their details. In all honesty there was a chance that Ethan was right anyway. Captain Lewis may have requested the list so that he could strategize an attack on the stadium.