Ace of Spades Chronicles : Book One

by P. R. Sharp

  The store security guard looked up from his monitors but didn't move. Another man dropped a large bag of barbeque charcoal as the doctor fell into him. The bag split in two and black briquettes scattered across the freshly polished floor. It was very busy, even though it was barely 9.15am, and there were still people streaming in from the car park. Families getting ready for a splendid day out; Single mothers with uncontrollable kids. Pot-bellied men with their obnoxiously loud, pot-bellied wives.

  Watching the female doctor as she moved deeper into the store stood an overachieving middle manager attempting to wow a very self important senior manager with her point-of-sale skills. They slowly started to follow the doctor, passing an underpaid shelf-stacker who was busy replenishing stock; he was getting in everyone’s way and blocked the aisle with cages overflowing with goods.

  Suddenly, the female doctor pitched head first into a display of batteries near one of the check outs, sending dozens of little trip and skid hazards all over the place. She completely lost control of her forward momentum and fell face first into the rack, then tumbled to the floor, landing on her shoulder. A check out supervisor wearing a radio head-set leant over to help her up. She appeared to be only mildly stunned, and as he took her elbow and helped her to her feet, she grabbed his arm and bit into his palm as if it were a salad baguette. He yelped like a new born puppy and the female doctor pushed him vigorously aside. I waited for her to move away before slipping into the dog food aisle. I could still see her, but by now there were at least fifteen people between us. The check out supervisor held his hand to his mouth. She had drawn blood, and it pooled like crimson syrup onto the cuff of his pressed uniform.

  I picked up some dry food for Moya and zipped across to the bread. I got two loaves for the price of one and continued to the rear of the store and cut right towards the fresh meats where I got some sausages, then right again and down the tinned food and pasta aisle. I got some baked beans, 2kg of pasta shells, a large bag of sugar, and decided to get another bottle of spicy rum to ease my hangover, so weaved my way through the multitude of shoppers to the booze aisle. A few yards ahead and just around the corner in aisle thirteen, behind the savoury onion rings and hulahoops, there was a massive crash. The female doctor was grabbing bottles of alcoholic spirit and knocking the contents back as if it were lemonade. A junior assistant was arguing with her and trying to take a bottle of Bombay Sapphire from her hand, but the doctor was having none of it. She threw the assistant against the shelves; they fell from their moorings, spilling bottles to the floor. There was glass everywhere. The security guard and the junior manager I had seen previously arrived and flanked her; trying to anticipate which shelf of bottles she would demolish next. The guard grabbed the doctor by the shoulder and spun her around to face him. To his own dismay and to everyone continuing to shop and browse around them, she swung her head forward as if to head butt him, then clamped her teeth around the soft flesh of his nose and bit it off. The gathered crowd of shoppers recoiled as a quick jet of blood splattered their clothing, cheeks and the junior manager’s face. The guard pushed the doctor away and grabbed his own face. He whirled and screamed, spraying yet more blood onto the shoppers closest to him, then fell to his knees. The shoppers scattered. I stood open mouthed and watched as the female doctor calmly spat out the guard’s nose as if she were spitting out a piece of lint. There was a moment when time stood completely still...

  Then all hell broke loose.

  The female doctor started to shake, as if she were having some kind of grand-mal. She pulled at her collar, exposing her neck line. Veins popped from her throat. She tore at her skin, shedding cloudy liquid and blood in a fine spray. She pulled at her mouth and gasped for air. "Please help me," she cried; her voice strangulated with fear. The junior manager leaned forward and with explosive force, the female doctor vomited into her face then turned into a human wrecking ball. She grabbed her head then began to thrash wildly, fists outstretched. She fired bottle after bottle from the shelves. They flew like missiles, smashing on impact with the floor. Her hands were severely gashed and jagged lacerations exposed her radial arteries. Glass and blood, mixed with flying vomit, showered the onlookers. Many dropped their shopping and ran in disgust and panic. I saw one woman slip and fall hard. She scrambled to her feet and slid through the blood in a desperate need to distance herself from the unfolding horror. Then the female doctor collapsed into a puddle of her own blood and puke, twitching like a fish on a line.

  I; like many others, held my breath; and not just because of the smell. I think I was in shock for a few minutes; in fact, I’m sure of it. I remember being very aware of my breathing, which was thick and slow, the way you feel after walking up a protracted hill. And my heart was pounding, punching my rib cage with an anxious rhythm. I could feel my pulse, pumping in my ear like a distant, dull bell, and I distinctly remember a cold shiver stroking my arms and the back of my neck.

  If I had wanted to exit quickly, I couldn't. Splattered onlookers blocked both ends of the aisle, and there was a huddle of people, standing in the growing mere of red, catatonic and shaking; each had signs of blood or puke on them. I was caught between these and the rear of the aisle. Some of those who had been closest were wiping sick and blood from their faces. A small boy was spitting out a mouthful of vomit and gagging. A female member of staff began to scream when she realised that her uniform was now a Rorschach of gore. A young couple skidded on the blood soaked floor as they dragged each other away. The junior manager grabbed handfuls of vomit from her hair and shoulders and shook it off her hands, sending yet more vile projectiles in the direction of the onlookers. She gagged and gipped, then she threw up. The smell was overpowering. Rancid stomach juices mixed with bile and booze. Every muscle in my body told me to move, to drop my groceries, to get Moya and get the hell away; but I was transfixed. The overriding aroma rising from the floor was making me retch. I tried to push through the crowd, but trolleys blocked my route and a man dressed in a cheap suit and smelling of body odour was pushing against me. In a very reassuring way he calmly announced that he had first aid training, as he moved down the aisle; to me, he looked like he was about to diffuse a bomb. The junior manager waved him over, clearly recovering from her own vomit drenching. The man in the cheap suit checked the security guard, who was out cold and lying in the foetal position amid the broken bottles and peanut butter coloured vomit, which now had rivulets of congealing blood running through it. I heard him say, "He has a pulse." There was a collective, optimistic sigh, and I took this as my cue to leave.

  As I turned away, the store’s P.A system ordered in a low-key tone, very unemotionally… "Clean up in aisle thirteen please, clean up in aisle thirteen." And I found myself feeling extremely sorry for the poor sod on minimum wage who was going to have to mop up this mess, whether they liked it or not. People were still trying to get a glimpse of the drama as I headed back to the rear of the store; but I needed to get away from the smell before I threw up, too. I quickly weaved back to the fresh vegetables, picked up a bag of onions and headed for the check outs. I was concerned that Moya had been outside for some time and I was worried that someone might take a fancy to her good nature and steal her. When I joined the line of people waiting to pay, I saw the small boy who had taken a face load from the female doctor. His slightly over weight mother was struggling to hold him upright, and he was complaining in a whiny voice that he was thirsty. The queue was jittery, made worse by the fact that two paramedics were now rushing through the store towards aisle thirteen. I glanced in that direction and saw the young couple who had been in the middle of the carnage. The woman was shaking whilst the man wetted his t-shirt with the tip of his tongue and wiped speckles of blood from her flushed cheeks. It only occurred to me much later that he was essentially licking the infection from her face. He would have been much better off putting the barrel of a loaded gun into his mouth and blowing his brains out. As for the small boy, I watched with alarm and bewilderment as he took
the cap off a bottle of fabric conditioner and gulped back its sticky blue contains as if it were a milk shake.

  Trolleys bashed into each other as people rushed to get out. The anxious crowd jostled me outside and I collected Moya, all the time my ears were assaulted by the siren of an ambulance, parked just outside the entrance. I was amazed by the amount of people who were still entering the store, regardless of, and unmindful of, the sheer number of bodies who were exiting the foyer stacked high with summer goods in absolute, bloody panic.

  It felt like I was surrounded. I got across the road and shaking, rolled a cigarette, watching everything around me. Two police cars escorted a police van away from the hospital. I saw a thin column of smoke tapering into the sky from one of the medical out buildings. Numerous people blocked the hospital gates and a fight had broken out between three uniformed police officers and a heavy set male dressed in olive green pyjamas. They strong-armed him into the back of another police van and clambered in after him before pulling the van doors shut. The van shook from side to side as the struggle between law and disorder continued within. I turned and saw shoppers running across the customer car park to their vehicles. A man pushed an old lady over as he ran for the departing number thirty six bus. And there were more sirens.

  An angry traffic jam waited to fill up at the petrol station, and the exit lane leading to the roundabout was heavily congested. People who had just left the store threw up out of open car windows. Others were opening their boots and raiding their shopping for something to drink. People were actually fighting in the road over a can of coke.

  By the time we reached the reserve, the constant whine of the hospital alarm was making my ears vibrate; and the traffic, that now stretched bumper to bumper in both directions for a half mile, growled and hissed, clogging the clear, morning air with noise and exhaust fumes. An ambulance manoeuvred its way along the central white line towards the supermarket, forcing drivers to pull over just that little bit more. One driver saw this as his chance to advance along the queue. Taking full advantage, he pulled out and followed the ambulance. More cars followed; but when they reached the roundabout, they were met with aggressive disapproval from puke splattered drivers, who stood in the road and blocked their path. I heard the distinctive crunch of metal hitting metal. To make matters worse, the traffic lights ahead of me were being upgraded and a temporary set was in place. They had been causing problems for almost a week now and it looked like these had failed and were for the time being, permanently stuck on red in all directions. Horns and music from car stereos filled the air, and the occasional snippet of fearful conversation over a mobile phone added to the surreal, chaotic vehicular monster that was growing before me. Somewhere in the traffic I could hear ‘Doom and Gloom’ by The Rolling Stones.

  I spent the next few hours sat on the kitchen step, slowly getting drunk on the cold Special Brew from the fridge and I might have smoked a fat joint or two; stoned and pissed, I watched the traffic jam that was going nowhere. Moya sat next to me and growled as remote sirens from every bearing enveloped the borough. People were fighting and collapsing in the road.

  As my body gave in to the combination of booze and weed, I hummed The Imperial March from Star Wars. I always hum to myself when I'm anxious or nervous or self conscious. If not Star Wars then The Map Room from Raiders of the Lost Ark or anything with a John Williams theme. That or some random, tuneless melody. I find it comforting. Don't ask me why.

  I never did get that bottle of spicy rum.

  2.2

  Ace of Spades

  DAY TWO

  'Wake me up when September ends...'

  Green Day... Wake Me Up When September Ends

  Looking out of my window on the morning of that second day, the road was scattered with abandoned vehicles. I saw bodies lying on the tarmac. They looked peaceful, yet; unreal. The car park below me was empty except for a police cruiser. I couldn’t remember that arriving during the night. Its doors were open but I couldn't see anybody inside.

  I hadn't slept much the night before. I just lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, listening to the world unravel.

  Moya sat patiently by my feet, waiting for her morning piss. I scanned the road for movement; and considering the mayhem heard through the night, I expected to see at least some activity, but nothing stirred. No traffic moved. No one walked the street. Even the constant drone of sirens had stopped.

  I'm lying.

  The only thing that moved was a single carrier bag dancing on the gentle morning breeze. It loopdelooped and dived beneath the blue, white and yellow shell of the Police cruiser and got wedged under the exhaust pipe. It reminded me of that famous scene from Donnie Darko.

  Loopdeloop...

  I went down the stairs to the kitchen. Moya got there before me. I got us ready. I opened the kitchen door. I remember how silent it was; compared to the night before. Nothing moved. I slowly peered into the police cruiser as Moya sniffed the air. The driver and passenger doors were open and there was a splattering of dried blood on the body work. The keys were still in the ignition. Moya tugged on her lead, and I let her pull me away.

  There was a Police van with a dark figure sat at the steering wheel, the same Police van I had seen parked outside the hospital gates; it must have forced its way through the traffic until it got blocked where it now stood, and in front of this, a man lying on his face next to a blue Vauxhall Corsa. He looked like he had taken a step from the car and tripped. There was vomit spray within and around the vehicle and his head was bleeding profusely from where he'd face slammed the road. That must have hurt. Years ago, my mother, who had been in her seventies at the time; tripped and head butted the pavement, fracturing her eye socket and cheekbone. The physical recovery took about six weeks but the mental recovery lasted for the rest of her life. I remember wincing as I thought of this and for the shortest time I considered approaching to see if he needed medical assistance; I didn't though, deciding otherwise in an even shorter time period.

  I have learnt that the infection has more than one phase; I had already witnessed Phase One in the supermarket, though at this juncture I didn't know it. Once infected, the incubation period is expeditious, though it does vary from person to person according to age, general fitness, health and well being. Those who are very young or old, or with an existing illness, are particularly susceptible, no matter how mild that illness might be. It's different for each person, but the symptoms are the same and can take a matter of minutes to a few hours, possibly even a couple of days to take hold, and is dependent on how the virus enters the body. First, the body's internal thermostat goes haywire; I call it meltdown. Hot flushes are followed by an intense thirst. Any liquid will do, even fabric conditioner. As the body temperature rises, the victim becomes irrational, usually violent. The need to drink something, anything, becomes so overpowering that nothing else matters. By this point the virus has already colonised within the brain and is busy rewriting DNA. The victim will have seizures, vomit, strike out if approached and eventually collapse. Any injuries incurred during this period will not slow them down. I've seen infected with broken limbs thrashing about; they don't care. They feel no pain. The primary somatosensory cortex must get destroyed or by passed in some way. With the virus now in complete control, they are beyond help and will not respond to your words or any gesture of aid. They are…

  (a) Best avoided or

  (b) Put out of their misery before Phase Two can activate.

  (For the record, I prefer option b.)

  As I looked down the street I could see more bodies lying in the road next to their vehicles or slumped in a fallen position, shopping strewn from their cars and across the tarmac. My focal point was drawn towards the number thirty six bus and the driver; his face smeared across the windscreen, frozen against the glass in a half comical, half monstrous manner. The rear panel of his cab was covered red with blood, as if his vertebrae had been ripped out. Behind the bus, a pick up truck, behind that, a home d
elivery van from the supermarket; behind that an SUV, behind that a sleek saloon, behind that a Range Rover and on and on and on, down towards the supermarket roundabout.

  On both sides of the road, cars were standing with engines barely running or had long since spluttered to a silent shell of metal, waiting for their owners to wake up or return from where ever they had fled to.

  Moya edged her snout towards blue Corsa man and I yanked her away, pulling her back in the direction of the house. I experienced sudden panic, rising up in my gut, and an all consuming desire to lock the compound gates and retreat to the safety of my lounge, two floors up.

  Moya was desperate for a piss. I let her off the lead and she pelted up the lane that runs behind our neighbour’s houses and sniffed around for a place to do her business. I heard three, very loud bangs somewhere in the distance, followed by a series of screams, some shouting; then total silence. The kind of silence that has personality. It wasn't the usual kind of rare calm you hear in a city. Not a Sunday morning stillness, not a New Year’s Day hush. My Special Brew pickled brain told me it was gun shots.

  Moya trotted back to me and we both entered the compound with an unspoken urgency. She knew something had spooked me and we shared that unspoken bond between man and dog that says "I don't like this." Moya watched me as I closed the gates, her tail curled between her legs; hers ears, flat to the side of her head. Galvanised metal clanged shut as I locked the gates with heavy duty chain and a pair of fire brigade padlocks that had hung there uselessly overnight. Three metres of spiked palisade fencing with the usual anti-vandal fixtures now stood between us and the outside world. A blazing hot knitting needle of pain melted through my left shoulder as I missed my footing going up to the kitchen, grating my shin, hard, down the coarse cement steps. I felt sick.