by RR Haywood
Like I said; it’s a cheap shot.
But it still bloody stings.
Eight
Day Sixteen.
A new day dawns with the solemn promise from Mother Nature that life will go on. Perhaps not the life of our species, but life nevertheless.
Jess and I made camp in an old barn set down a country lane and bordered by flat fields. Jess ate her oats and was given a good brush down, which she suffered with the regal grace that only a pure blood animal can muster and with a wholesome belief that I am to perform in servitude for her needs.
Before the night grew dark, I made a small fire and heated water to enjoy a refreshing earl grey tea. My rations were opened and a good meal was made of them and it was as the last of the tea was drained that I became aware of Jess showing signs of nervousness.
Horses have strong instincts of flight. She is not a guarding animal but one born to have constant awareness. With outstanding hearing and a keen sense of smell she is a lot more in tune with the surroundings then I am. Having spent so much time together now, I have become acutely aware of when she is unsure, scared, terrified or building up for a tantrum.
She was flicking her head up and her eyes were somewhat wider. They were gentle movements but enough for me to be reaching for the assault rifle and making it ready before heading outside. After my last debacle of entering the house of the first man I was supposed to find who was immune, only to find he was not only not immune but very infected and shut in an upstairs room with his infected family – I did kill them but only after stumbling back to fall on my arse. So after that too-close encounter, I was now ready with the weapon held properly and my feet treading carefully.
It was fog. Fog made Jess nervous. A bank of fog heading towards us like a somewhat translucent wall of scentless white smoke. To watch such a thing is to feel the hairs on the back of your neck prick up and a creeping urge to run and flee builds. I knew it was fog for I have seen fog, however, this was thicker, higher and more dense than anything I have previously known.
It was silent too, for it swept upon me like a noiseless entity that absorbs sound. Not only did it make no noise but it seemed to take noise from all around and make it seem, I don’t know…deader? Emptier? Less resonant?
My guess is that the particles in the air, the trillions of tiny water droplets hovering in a suspended stasis somewhere between a gaseous vapour like state and a physical molecular form, somehow does absorb noise.
Sound is created by the air around us and the differences in friction, heat and speed. There is no sound in space, for space is a void that is empty of air. With no air there can be no sound.
The fog thickens the air, and therefore reduces the shockwaves needed to create sound. I know this. I am a scientist.
But science and mythology are two different things. I know what the fog is but I can’t see through it and that scared me. It scared Jess too.
For some long minutes I remained kneeling in the doorway of the barn with the weapon held up and ready, as though I were expecting the infected to come blundering into view having walked silently across the fields.
My mind sought to create form where there were none. Instead of the rolling mist, I demanded to see monstrous shapes of horned beasts with wild red eyes looming from the depths. I twitched, flicking my aim wherever I supposed they would be. I tried to remember the exact layout of the land around me and aim the weapon to where I supposed the entrance gateway must be but it could have been metres to the left or right. So there I stayed while Jess ferreted about behind me, dropping splatting dollops of horseshit that near sent me into apoplexy.
It was the noise of her defecating that eventually prompted me to turn and face her and in so doing, I observed that although she was watchful and alert, she was now not showing signs of concern or anxiety.
If something were to come towards us, she would hear it or smell it and in her heightened senses I must place my trust, or I shall become a nervous wreck within a day or so.
I found some rope and looped a loose collar round her neck and fastened the other end to my wrist. Being tethered in such a manner meant I could sleep easy knowing I would either be jerked by her head flicking up or dragged along if she gave flight.
As I drifted off I did hope she did not choose to enjoy a midnight gallop.
The morning came as mornings do and I awoke with Jess first blasting my face with warm horse breath. After not getting the reaction she so desired, I was prodded, pushed and finally bit on the shoulder. On seeing me awake she then decided I needed a walk and proceeded to toddle off towards the door while I got jerked by the tether.
The fog was still as thick as the previous evening but seemingly denser or perhaps thicker.
We knew that weather changes would happen but without real data we were unable to predict exactly what those changes would be. The only like-event ever to take place was the extinction of the dinosaurs but without finding a way to go back and ask them what happened, we had no real way of knowing for sure.
Predictions were made as to the expected changes as a result of the cessation of human-kind and our species immediate impact on the planet and the storm at the two week mark was, although a lot stronger than we thought, was not without some sense of expectation.
The thought of setting out in this fog is, frankly, quite terrifying. I know the direction to take and I have maps, a compass and can navigate the route but we will be walking into the unknown without any idea of what lies immediately ahead of us, and solely reliant on Jess’s sense of hearing and smell.
Thinking back to those days within the complex, it now seems like a lifetime ago. The sheer wonder of having the greatest of minds together in the same room and access to unrestricted data was something none of us had ever envisaged before.
Panacea. Even saying the word now sends shivers down my spine. The ability to end all suffering. All diseases and all illnesses cured and propel our species in that next step on the long road towards immortality.
We knew alright. Oh, we knew this was something beyond mere hypotheses. To gather the greatest of professionals and experts in one place, regardless of country of origin or political affiliation – and to enter a research programme to determine the cause and effects of a “hypothetical” scenario???
No. We knew. All of us knew they had something real.
Where did the finance come from? Who paid for us? And how did they get access to all the restricted data? Our primary objective was one thing but the secondary principles we established were ground-breaking.
We were the first group in the history of humankind to correctly calculate the population of the planet and further, we were able to break those populaces down into age ranges, gender and then further into a matrix that determined health, education and ability to survive in differing scenarios.
We were the first group that went beyond the use of mere statistics to correctly calculate the projected annual population increases. We knew what effects the introductions of certain diseases would have in certain areas. To release the Influenza virus in one place would have the same fatally catastrophic effect that, say, the release of Smallpox would have somewhere else. More than that, we knew how differing strains of viruses would have differing effects within populaces that held either natural anti-bodies or had access to first world medical facilities.
We compiled the first fully accredited lift of the stock-piles held by each and every country. Be that food, weapons or medicines. Surprisingly, the first world countries all topped with weapons but not food or medicines. It was the developing nations that were paying attention to their evolution and economy that held the best balance.
Enough for now. My mind is finding ways to delay the inevitable and we must now venture into the fog to continue our search.
Today is Emma Ford. Emma is twenty-five years old and works as a shop assistant in her local town. She has a boyfriend called James who is a local mechanic. An ordinary person of no special concern.
NB
Nine
‘Slow down,’ a voice winces in the darkness, ‘my fucking leg is broke… Derek… Derek?’
‘What?’
‘Fucking slow down.’
‘And wait for that lunatic?’ Derek whispers hoarsely, ‘no way.’
‘They got him down.’ Another voice speaks out too loudly and the others shush and wave for him to be quiet. Panic ripples through them as they flee the munitions factory into the dark night, fleeing from the deranged man. Shushing each other, they gasp in pain from the broken limbs wrought by a deranged Howie battering anyone close enough to strike. Noses that gushed with blood now drip silent as the blood congeals. Fingers snapped out of socket are held steady as tears of fear stream down the men, women and children.
Derek and the men gathered round the intercom, listened as Howie demanded bullets be brought out. That they wanted a fair exchange of trade in return was a perfectly acceptable situation to them. After all, they were in what they thought was one of the most secure buildings in the country.
The munitions factory boasted state of the air security and permanent on-site armed personnel. The walls were re-enforced with steel bars. The windows were toughened to withstand explosive detonation. There was simply no way of getting in.
Or so they thought. The over-reliance on a nation running as it should. They had been relying on the fact that any attack coming would be withstood by those security measures and buy time for the authorities to scramble and counter that attack. The confidence that they were secure was falsely given as without the authorities responding, they had but time to wait until Howie repeatedly rammed the Saxon into the re-enforced wall.
Over ten tonnes of generated energy against an immovable object. Friction. Speed. Power to weight ratio. And a dangerous man descending into a state of mind that meant he would never stop. Each impact shuddered through the walls. Each impact sent shockwaves of dispersed energy under their feet and their terror grew as the brickwork and plaster gave way and finally the steel bars were bent screeching and straining until the snapped.
A hole was formed and through that hole there came a nightmare of the darkest, longest nights. A man torn and bloodied with dark eyes that blazed with fury.
The men inside could have repelled that attack. Howie was one and they were many but the pure wildness that Howie brought cowered them back.
Panic exploded as more came through that hole. Men and women who knew how to fight. Men and women now lean from fifteen days of solid combat. They screamed and shouted at those inside to stop, but the confusion was increased as they screamed and shouted at each other and at the one called Howie.
When they finally brought him under control the damage was done and no sooner had the violence abated, the occupants were surging through their building gathering whatever they could carry to run out and into the dark night.
Now they are stretched out in a straggly line as they run, walk and limp. Children cry and sob, women weep and men grunt in pain. They send whispered shouts to hurry up, slow down, stay together, don’t bunch up, keep watch but stay quiet. Orders and commands conflict and only serve to exacerbate the noise and panic.
Into the night they run. Desperate to be away from the factory and the rogue group of mercenaries who destroyed their safety.
Into the night and shadows of the countryside.
Away from the insurgents.
Away from the danger.
---
One race.
The infection is not driven nor relentless, in the way the ocean is not driven nor relentless. It simply is what it is.
The wind is not relentless. The sun is not driven. The moon has not ambition nor motivation.
The infection is not bound by the same paltry attempts humans make to apply emotion and reason to every process of life.
The infection must survive as the oceans must follow the pull of the moon.
Howie leads the growing resistance and the weapons they carry inflict sustainable losses now, but the resistance will reach a number that can inflict such losses that are not sustainable. The chain has to be broken and the infection understands this.
Break the chain and take away their ability to inflict great losses. Take away the tools they use so well.
As the shared consciousness gathers greater hosts, so the memories and knowledge contained within those hosts are put to use. The munitions factory is explored through the architect’s memories who drew the blue print. The types of machinery there and what they produce are understood by the engineers who built them.
Every round within that factory represents the loss of a host. Those rounds must be destroyed. Every bullet and every bomb must be rendered unusable.
The infection sends hosts towards the munitions factory. Hordes of silent undead, bound by a discipline that means they do not whimper, gasp, cry or make any utterances of noise, move stealthily through the countryside towards the fleeing group running from the objective.
The infection hears them before the unmistakable stench of blood and fear rides the warm thermals of air that precedes the survivors.
As one, the horde ceases movement and remains still. The direction of the fleeing group is tracked and calculated. The horde break from the wide country path to slide silently into the undergrowth to the sides.
‘Derek!’ The voice rolls down the lane, ‘for fuck’s sake slow down.’
Red, bloodshot eyes turn towards the noise and the undead saliva glands pump infected drool into mouths, already preparing for the bite.
Ten
Day Three
Silence in the room. He breathes slow and easy, but forever alert and watchful. Any thoughts on his mind are masked by a face that shows no outward expression.
The index finger on his right hand slowly lifts from the handle of the ceramic mug, holds in the air, then drops down to tap silently back on the handle.
Gregori draws an inhalation of breath that fills and stretches his lungs, before being slowly released. He does it again, drawing breath in but this time, pushes his stomach out to stretch the taut muscles. On exhalation, he contracts his lungs to push every last inch of air out through his mouth. Again. In through the nose, his stomach expands, out through his mouth.
It’s a quick fix designed to flood the body with as much oxygen as possible. If Gregori had closed his eyes and re-opened them once the breathing exercise was complete, he would notice a sharper sense of vision and a greater clarity of view. He continues his breathing exercises until he hears the creak of bedsprings followed by the thud of two small feet hitting the wooden floor boards above him.
A slight frown crosses his face and Gregori’s lips tighten. Why is he here? Why take care of the boy? Why?
There is no objective now. No mission to complete and no pick up point arranged. No safe house to hide away in before he can be covertly extracted and sent onto the next mission arranged by his Albanian mafia bosses.
He looks round the old kitchen at the plates and cups stacked up beside the sink. England was a strange country at the best of times, but here, surrounded by vast landscapes of countryside broken only by the squalor of ruined industrial cities and towns, those places were ruined well before this happened.
The toilet flushes and he hears taps being twisted on then off. The boy works unseen round the bathroom, going from toilet to sink to shower, and those actions alone make the hairs on the back of Gregori’s neck stand up.
Children were small people. That was all. They were people who were smaller. Everyone was born, everyone had a childhood and everyone became an adult, so there really was nothing special about them. It was the facts of life and to Gregori, a target was a target. If he was instructed to kill just one, he killed that one. If he was told to kill many, then he killed many. If those many consisted of children, women, elderly, sick, infirm or disabled then he did it.
The boy was no threat to him. He could
move silently from this chair, cross the floor, go up the stairs, into the bathroom and emerge five seconds later leaving the corpse of the boy behind him.
Only he couldn’t do it. No, he could do it except he couldn’t do it. He wanted to do it but…what? What was that?
How did the boy know the things were going to howl like that? Gregori’s hearing is exceptional and he didn’t hear a single sign of what was about to happen. How did the boy know the howling was going to end? How did the boy know they were coming? Why wasn’t the boy gibbering with terror and fear? Why was the boy getting up in a strange house and going for a shower without any obvious signs of fear?
The plan had been to find a group of survivors and leave the boy with them. Gregori had also factored that by having a small child with him he would appear less threatening. Those reasons were now gone. He’d found survivors last night but instead of handing the boy over he killed them and hid the bodies in the cellar.
He was going to head south and find a way back to Albania. Back to his people and the safety they would offer. No, not the safety they would offer as Gregori would be the one giving the safety. It was the order and structure of life he was going back for.
‘Gregoreeeee?’ The boy’s singsong voice calls out into the silence of the old house. Footsteps thud on the stairs as the boy runs down to jump two footed into the hallway. He spins and heads straight towards the back of the house and the kitchen.