by Ian Woodhead
When the lady had first entered the shop, telling tales of stocking up, hiding away perishables and protecting the shop, Emma had assumed it had to do with those reports. She’d listened to all that excitable nonsense on the television this afternoon. It was all way too confusing, as ridiculous as it seemed, it almost sounded as if some invading army was marching through England’s cities.
That was just ridiculous; at least, Emma thought it was. She never took much notice of events happening outside of Seeton nowadays. It was always bad news, each and every day, another war, a famine, some earthquake, never any good news. Emma much preferred the daily chats she had with the rest of Seeton’s womenfolk, now they were far more interesting.
She’d turned the television off is disgust, folk ought to just get along with each other. Even so, if we had been invaded, it was a bit of a poor do, she just hoped the army would sort them out before they got anywhere near her village.
She couldn’t work out just who had declared war on England. Emma did recall something about a French helicopter firing loads of missiles at a refugee column. She tutted. That sounded about right. She never did trust those Frenchies. Jack had taken her once to Paris a few decades ago, the only time she’d been out of Seeton. She’d hated every moment. The food was all weird and nobody spoke English over there.
Emma sighed and looked across at Tom’s butcher’s shop. Looking at what he’d done to the front of his shop, she guessed that Anne must have paid him a visit as well. Only he’s used large boards of plywood. That would take some getting off; she hated to think of the damage all those nails would have caused to the frames below. Still, Emma wasn’t going to fret, Tom would soon be in her shop asking for any wood-filler.
He really should have used newspaper. Her mother had done exactly the same during the last war. She had only been a child at the time but that memory of her mum taping newspaper inside and out of the shop windows stayed in her mind. Her mum even had blackout curtains, she had always believed in making sure.
That Clarence hadn’t bothered doing anything to his shop, now which was a bit odd. She’d watched Anne enter the bakers; she’d stayed there for quite some time too. Clarence had a crush on that Anne, everyone in the village knew that piece of not so secret information. She found it sweet but in turn just a little weird. Clarence wasn’t the most stable of individuals in Seeton. There had always been something not quite right about that lad; even Clarence’s mum had said that. Emma would have to pay that poor woman a visit tomorrow. Say what you like about the boy, at least he looked after his mum in her time of need.
Well, as long as they didn’t turn on any lights, they should be okay. Those German bombers probably wouldn’t bother with their village anyway. Emma shook her head, trying to disperse that mental fog that had been slowly filling her mind. No, it wasn’t the Germans this time, was it?
Emma bent down and gave her ankle a good rub, when she pulled her hand away, it surprised her to find the palm of her hand covered in thick blood. She slowly raised the hand close to her nose, drawn by the powerful metallic scent; Emma moaned aloud and drew her tongue across the palm. The exquisite taste of her own life-fluid oozing down her throat was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She didn’t stop licking until her hand was spotless.
She shivered, feeling for the first time since this morning, alert and awake. The true horror of the situation outside and the incident from this morning, slammed into her like a runaway express locomotive. The woman leaped up, stared aghast at the sprawled bodies under her window, then she looked at the ugly gash starting at her Achilles heel and leading up to the back of her knee.
Her moan of despair started at the pit of her stomach and travelled up through her contaminated, changing body until it reached her throat. Emma then fell back down in her chair as the mental fog regained control of her mind.
She couldn’t believe how hungry she was. Emma had already had a spot of supper a bit back, just a couple of slices of toast with a light spread of marmalade. Not too much, mind. It wasn’t healthy to have a large amount just before bedtime.
It was no good, she’d have to have something else; Emma just couldn’t go to bed with this stomach complaining for food, the rumbling would keep her up all night. There was a bit of lime jelly on a plate at the back of the fridge. That would do her; she could also use the last of the vanilla ice-cream in the freezer compartment. She was going to save that for her husband when he came back from his walk..
Emma eased her body out of the chair and hobbled over to the bedroom door. This stomach of hers really was annoying her; she really did need to get it filled up with something.
If Jack still fancied a snack when he came back, she could always fix him up a corned beef sandwich. Emma had two tins left in the cupboard and one hidden away behind her needlework box. Jack was a bugger for helping himself. The man loved the stuff; He also had a tendency for covering the meat in tomato sauce. Emma had no plans on putting any of that into his sandwich. Why Jack insisted on covering all his meals in the stuff was beyond her, he even squirted it in soup.
The image of a white plate covered in the crimson condiment suddenly filled her mind. Emma’s stomach growled. She dragged her hand across the damaged ankle again and moaned in pleasure at the sight of her bloodstained palm. She eagerly lapped the congealing blood off her skin as she made her way downstairs.
By the time she’d reached the bottom, Emma had completely forgotten what she was supposed to be doing.
That dense mist weaving through her mind receded slightly when she noticed a single brass coat-hook. There should be something on there. The old woman giggled, Jack’s bright red tartan jacket wasn’t where it should be. “What are you like, Emma Chatsworth? You really are a silly moo. The coat is on your husband. How could you forget about Jack?”
She’d threatened the man on numerous times that she would throw that battered old thing into the bin. She didn’t care about the sentimental attachment; he looked like a bloody tramp wearing that old coat. In fact, she had thrown it in the bin a couple of times but he’d just gone and fished it back out again.
“He’s taking his sweet time.” She glanced at the wall clock, “He’s been gone simply ages; Jack doesn’t usually take this long. I do hope he’s alright.”
He’d said earlier that he was feeling a bit under the weather, looking back, her husband did look very pale before he left the house. He told her that he needed a bit of fresh air to clear his head.
“It’s all that boy’s fault, we should have called the police.”
Emma sighed, wishing she hadn’t said that. She’d been trying to forget about that boy all morning. They’d both been enjoying their daily walk when he’d jumped out from that bush. She jerked to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, thinking back, that boy had more fallen out of the bush.
“He must have been from the next village, that place was full to the brim with ruffians. They had gypsies and drug addicts in Netherwell.”
That boy had made a right mess of her husband’s hand when he’d grabbed him, the boy must have had a knife in his hand. Jack had tried to fight back but that kid had been like a wild beast. She daren’t think what would have happened if that farmer hadn’t shown up. Emma had seen Ken driving towards them, as soon as he’d stopped the boy; he’d jumped off his tractor and ran over. The big man literally dived on the boy and knocked him to the floor.
That kid must have caught her leg when Ken rugby tackled him to the ground, his long nails cut through her tights and into her skin. It didn’t half sting, Emma had been so tempted to kick that boy in the face for that.
Emma hobbled into the living room, her gnawing hunger intensified when she saw the huge white fridge through the open door. Jack could have the jelly. She needed something more substantial. She rushed into the kitchen, the focus of her desire stood before her. She grabbed the handle and pulled open the fridge door. Her eyes widened at the sight of a small beef joint resting on a plate. She reached in,
snatched the meat off the plate and dug her teeth into the red flesh. As the meat juices dribbled down her chin, the old woman pretty much forgot about the pain in her leg. She stood up and took another huge bite. Emma Chatsworth pretty much forgot about everything apart from the raging desire to consume raw flesh.
Chapter Twenty-one
That overwhelming stench of rot still lingered, he held his nose and shut his mouth, yet the smell was still there.
“It’s all in your mind, you silly sod.”
George wiped the condensation off the mirror and stared at the haggard looking old man who looked back at him. He looked as though he’d aged another twenty years since this morning.
“You look eighty and already smell like you’ve been dead six months.” No, it really must be imagining that horrid smell. He’d used enough applications of liquid soap to clean a fucking elephant.
He’d already spend twenty minutes in the wash-room. Anne was probably wondering where he’d got to. George looked up at the closed door, expecting it to open at an anytime. After gazing at the door for a full minute, he sighed and turned back to stare at the sink.
Maybe he ought to just stay in here, he had no desire to stand on that stage and talk to his fellow villagers. He knew that Anne would have no problem in public speaking. That incredible voice of hers could entrance any audience.
The door slowly opened a crack.
“Are you decent in there?”
George grinned, “No, but that didn’t stop you earlier.”
Anne opened the door and padded up to him. She leaned in close and took a deep breath. “You smell like washing up liquid. I thought you’d run off. I got so worried.”
He shrugged, “I told you where I was going.”
“Are you coming?”
He shook his head, “I can’t, Anne. I can still smell that reek.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s gone. You smell fine.” She hurried back to the door and leaned out. “I got you a present.” Anne came back in and threw him a bomber jacket.
George caught it wiggling his nose at the pervading aroma of hay and stale dope-smoke coming off the fabric.
“I can see that look, George Kasnovski. Just put it on, besides, at least it smells better than rotting meat. Now come on, do as you’re told. You’re not staying in here all night.”
He sighed, put the jacket on and followed the woman out of the washroom. George swallowed his heart back down and walked down the corridor, towards the main hall, he’d never seen it so full before.
George entered the hall, thankful that their arrival provoked little reaction. He sneaked behind a group of kids and watched Ken begin his explanation of the events on his farm earlier on. He heard more than his fair share of shocked gasps and quiet whimpers but he knew that most of the assembled villagers would take the farmer’s calm words as gospel. Ken always chose his words with consideration and never wasting his time in giving out misleading information.
Anne squeezed her way through the kids and took his hand. “Are you okay, George? You’re shaking.”
He hadn’t realised. “Delayed shock, I guess.”
Anne smiled. “Don’t you let anything worry you, my sweet. We have everything planned out. Once he’s finished, Ken will ask for volunteers to help him put these things down. We’ll need a few more lookouts too. We’ll soon have our village back to normal.”
She gently rapped her knuckles on his forehead. “Hello? Earth to George.”
He blinked, “Sorry, that vile smell has come back, I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of it.”
“What you need is a cool drink or something to eat. There’s a small spread in the function room.”
He just had to smile at that, the ladies of Seeton didn’t need much of an excuse to make sandwiches, even if was the advent of Armageddon.
“I’ll get you a glass of orange, if you like.”
He shook his head, “Don’t you trouble yourself, Anne, I’ll go, I’m feeling a little claustrophobic anyway.”
George pushed past her and gave the woman a kiss, much to the amusement of the kids. He hurried out of the hall hoping she wouldn’t follow him. The background noise coming from the hall diminished as did his stress and anxiety. When he reached the function room door, all George wanted to do was to just go home, have a long, hot bath and climb into bed with a bottle of brandy, and not with Anne.
He sighed, knowing that would never happen. Daft really, it’s not as if he’s feeling guilty for leaving Anne on her own. He’d done his gallant act and already saved her life. Somebody would look after good old, Anne, he let out a bitter laugh. Hell, the other men would be queuing up. He’d never realised just how manipulative that woman really was until tonight.
The door was already open, wedged in-place with a wooden chair. George guessed that Anne wouldn’t want anyone to hurt once the stampede for food started. Unreal, that woman thought of everything. Before he could step inside, he heard a loud crash coming from the main hall. He snapped his head back, his heart beating double time at the sound of half a dozen screaming voices.
“Oh, fuck, please not them.” George looked into the function room, wishing he could just hide under the table, “Why not, George. You’d only get in the way.”
There was a wooden mop, propped against the wall, George rushed in, grabbed the pole and headed back to the hall.
“You silly bastards,” he cried.
Some idiot had opened a fire door at the back of the building. Several rotting bodies had already shambling through. He saw the nearest one head straight for a young girl, she hadn’t seen them, her astonished face watched the other villagers shrinking back from the approaching corpses. Why was nobody helping her?
George pushed through the panicking throng of bodies, screaming at them to move out of his way. The girl still hadn’t moved! That thing was right behind her, how could she not know about it? George could smell it from where he stood.
“Look out!” he screamed.
He squeezed through the remaining people, grabbed her shoulder and pulled the girl into the crowd; he then raised the mop and swung it into the side of the dead thing’s exposed skull. It just dropped to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. George stared at the blackened body, sprawled by his feet, leaking out thick stinking goo onto the polished wooden floor. He couldn’t believe how easy that had been. George sensed more movement; he looked towards the fire door. There were more of the things coming through. George knew everyone of those dead people, he jumped over the body, desperate to stop any of them from getting to the villagers. He then heard the crack of wood against flesh and saw Anne take one of them out with a broken chair leg.
George then felt the back of his donkey jacket being pulled, he spun around expecting to find one of the other villagers; instead he came face to face with Tom’s dead father. He screamed in disgust as the rotten corpse tried to pull George’s face towards its teeth. George pushed the mop’s blunt end into the thing’s empty eye socket and thrust the pole through the skull. The old butcher suddenly stopped moving, George pulled the pole out from the skull. He looked around the room, relieved to find the other villagers had broken from their paralysis and were now defending themselves.
He ran towards that open fire door, smashing the mop over the head of one of them that stood in his way. This one refused to go down,
“Die, you bastard!” he screamed. George raised the improvised weapon above his head, turned it and drove the blunt end into the man’s forehead.
“You stupid little boy,” he muttered as George reached the fire doors. He saw Harold Dunbar sprawled across the blood-streaked concrete with three corpses gorging on his body. He still had a death-grip on his packet of cigarettes.
“Told you smoking would be the end of you,” he muttered.
George kicked the fire extinguisher out of the way and slammed both doors shut; he turned round and discovered that no more of the things were left standing. Shocked silence hung heavy in the air, he
saw disbelief and shock, etched on the villager’s faces as they stared at the maimed bodies of their dead friends and relatives.
Only one person moved; he watched as a weeping man wearing a grey hooded top slowly made his way towards George. The man shuddered to a halt beside the fallen corpse of one of the dead. He looked straight at George.
“This is all your son’s fault, George Kasnovski,” shouted the retired teacher. “I’ve just had to put my brother down because of him.” He took off his top and kneeled down. The man gently placed the garment over the shattered corpse.
The entire gathered congregation slowly turned to stare at George.
“I overheard the pair of them, in the pub, his son and that blonde girlfriend of his. Those two have deliberately brought this fucking virus to our village.”
The mood in the room began to change, he watched their faces change from grief to anger, people whom he’d known all their lives became strangers to him; he then saw watched Anne nodding along with the rest of them.
“This will only stop when we get rid of them.”
George shook his head, not believing he was hearing this.
The teacher then turned and walked towards the crowd, he looked back at George, pointing his shaking hand. “They both have to die, tonight.” the man then walked up to another of the fallen dead, “You’re quite handy with that mop.” He put his foot under the dead thing’s body and flipped it over. “I guess that in the heated moment, you didn’t notice whose skull you’d smashed in.”
George fell to his knees, staring aghast at the broken face of Madison.
Chapter Twenty-two