by Tim Curran
He doubted this though. The only thing he knew was that Rex was a talisman for him, a deterrent to the fate that'd so rapidly and irrevocably consumed the rest of the town. “Maybe I can warn others, stop it spreading?” he asked Rex.
The roach refused to give Burt an answer.
“Maybe...” the old man answered himself, starting the engine.
WHY THE WILD THINGS ARE
Carl Barker
One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for…
Seven for…?
Lionel stood by the living room window, half-heartedly ransacking the dusty attic of his brain in search of the correct ending to the rhyme. After five minutes of rummaging in vain for words he felt sure were hidden away in there somewhere, he decided to give up and returned his attention to the gruesome scene currently taking place in the front garden. As he continued to sip thoughtfully from his mug of Bovril, Lionel mused to himself that he had no idea whether or not the children’s rhyme went as far as thirteen magpies. He was however quite sure that if it did then the correct words were certainly not ‘Thirteen for strips of rotting flesh being torn greedily from the dead body lying face-down in my garden pond.’
The rancid cadaver in question belonged to Lionel’s previously regular postman and had been loitering in the pond for going on two days now. The algae covered surface of the water lay strewn with discarded letters from the postman’s bag. Unable to be delivered, they clustered forgetfully about the partially submerged head like discarded thoughts, the addresses of the intended recipients slowly bleeding into the murky water.
For the first twenty-four hours or so, the corpse had remained relatively unmolested. However, once the late June sun had crawled lazily up into the sky on the second day, the first of the birds had started to appear on the lawn. Small ones to begin with, sparrows and finches mostly, casually strutting across Lionel’s neatly manicured grass as if they owned the place.
Standing in the kitchen with a bowl of dry cornflakes in his hands, Lionel had observed with some wry amusement as a particularly bold Bullfinch climbed up onto the deceased postie’s head and began industriously pecking into the back of his blood-spattered skull. Within a couple of minutes the majority of the other birds in the vicinity, taking the lead from this first diner, had also clambered atop the body and busied themselves with the task of extracting whatever tasty morsels they could dislodge from Lionel’s now defunct mailman.
Barely remembering to chew his cereal, Lionel had watched in morbid fascination as a Blue Tit manoeuvred itself into an inverted position beside one of the mailman’s ears and proceeded to peck furiously into the unprotected organ as if it were an upturned half coconut.
Of course, Lionel’s first thought had been to telephone somebody to report the abrupt appearance of the body on that first morning, but then the thought had occurred to him that he wasn’t entirely sure of whom to call. The two man village police force would have their collective hands full coordinating the recently introduced ‘domestic cleansing’ policy and would therefore probably be too busy to answer the phone, let alone pop round to investigate. It was also pretty self-evident that the district hospital could do nothing for the poor chap and two days was probably a bit soon to be contacting the undertakers, who might well be as busy as the police at the moment.
So having not come to any satisfactory conclusions as to who to contact, Lionel had elected to give the matter the necessary degree of thought and therefore proceeded to make a fresh pot of tea. It had to be black of course, as the last of the milk had been used up almost a week ago. In fact the milkman hadn’t come calling since last Tuesday, on account of what had happened to him.
Lionel had been rudely awakened around seven on that particular day by the sound of screaming coming from the street outside. Running to the bedroom window and pulling apart the curtains, he had been just in time to glimpse the somewhat comical figure of the milkman tearing away down the lane with a decidedly vicious looking jackdaw firmly attached to his head. Though already some distance away, Lionel had deduced that the irate bird must have taken it upon itself to try and penetrate the soft gold-top foil of the man’s cranium, presumably in search of the sweet-tasting cream beneath. He understood that the poor fellow had now been made very comfortable in the nearest intensive care ward. Well, as comfortable as it was possible to be with half your face and one of your eyeballs now firmly in the possession of a member of the corvid family.
The tea tasted a little dry without milk, but thankfully there was still plenty of sugar in the cupboard and by half past eleven Lionel found himself curled up in his favourite armchair, stirring the last of three sugar lumps into a reassuring cup of Earl Grey as he continued to eye the telephone in silent contemplation.
Perhaps he could ring the newly rechristened R.S.P.B (Royal Society for the Prevention of Birds, circa May 2012), he had reasoned as he continued to stir evenly anti-clockwise. After all, the fact that the body was now being molested by an assortment of avian pests surely placed the matter firmly within their particular area of expertise? However the more he thought about it, the more Lionel realised that the idea of a bunch of trigger-happy pigeon fanciers setting up camp in his garden with camouflage nets and laser-sighted sniper rifles didn’t much appeal to him.
The Royal Mail was another possibility, but then this raised the issue of them sending out yet another postman in order to confirm what had happened to the first and of course now that the local wildlife had acquired a taste for the flesh of Postman Pat and his ilk, that kind of behaviour was most definitely asking for trouble. Not to mention the fact that he felt entirely responsible for the whole incident in the first place.
The removal of the ‘Beware Of The Dog’ from the garden gate a week ago had seemed the most logical course of action under the circumstances (“…seven for a secret never to be told” whispered a quiet voice in his head), but at the time he had never imagined an outcome of this magnitude and informing the authorities of what exactly had transpired here was certainly not going to help matters any he reasoned.
No, Lionel had decided that if he was going to contact the Post Office regarding the matter then the correct course of action would be to write them a short friendly letter in a couple of days time. That way he could enquire as to whether they were yet aware that one of their postal workers was missing and that if it wasn’t too much trouble, would they mind popping round and delivering their late colleague into a couple of black bin-liners for disposal. This would then allow Lionel to kill two carnivorous birds with one stone and find out if it would be possible to request a second copy of his Reader’s Digest, on account of the first now having sunk without trace into the thick layer of silt and blood at the bottom of the pond.
By noon that day, the larger of the common variety garden feeders had begun to arrive on the scene; a couple of crows at first, swooping down to land abruptly beside the slowly rotting corpse. The pair had squawked copiously in order to frighten off the gathered horde of smaller birds and then inexplicably chose to fight with each other over the spoils before finally being themselves scared off by the dull rumble of a passing bus.
Lionel was tucking into a rather delicious tuna sandwich with extra mayonnaise when he noticed the increasing number of magpies gathering atop the roof on the opposite side of the street. At first there were just two of them, huddled together beside the TV aerial like gossiping old women, but as word evidently got around this number multiplied rapidly to six, then ten and eventually an even dozen. As a thirteenth and final bird (slightly larger and fatter than the others) swaggered arrogantly past Lionel’s garden shed, he did a quick tally and pondered whether or not this number of magpies should be considered unlucky. It was certainly unfortunate for the remains of the late postman, as with a single cry from the largest and nearest of the birds, the whol
e gang of magpies took flight, sailing down into the garden and descending en masse upon the hapless body like a hoodwink of delinquent grave robbers.
The piebald beasties made quick work of ripping mercilessly into the already tattered remnants of flesh still clinging to the corpse and upon remembering the correct collective noun, Lionel smiled grimly to himself at the thought that this was most definitely a ‘bad’ tiding of magpies.
Despite his melancholic state, he couldn’t help but laugh at the rather gruesome sight of an increasingly frustrated bird furiously trying to remove a shiny Rolex copy from the postman’s left arm. The poor bird appeared to be having some small trouble with the clasp and had resorted to solving the problem by attempting to peck the whole hand off at the wrist in order to retrieve its precious bounty. Several of the other magpies, attracted by the flickering reflection of light from the watch, decided to muscle in on this attempted daylight robbery and soon what had begun with a mere cacophony of irate squawking rapidly developed into a thoroughly vicious melee of wings and bloodied beaks.
Throughout this riotous behaviour, the largest (and presumably the leader) of the group remained perched majestically atop the postman’s torso, seemingly content to observe the petty machinations of his brethren from on high. As Lionel continued to watch spellbound, the despotic bird glanced up and looked directly at him, its beady red eyes boring into him. The unwanted connection sent a shiver down Lionel’s spine and he instinctively took a step back away from the window in fear.
Despite all the publicity and government information films which had appeared in the national media over the last few months regarding ‘The Event’ and the subsequent aggressive genetic mutations in local fauna, he still found himself distinctly unsettled by the red-eye phenomenon which was common amongst infected wildlife. It was like looking at a badly taken photograph he had decided, but one where the still life in the picture could suddenly leap out at you without warning, intent upon tearing your face off. The self-appointed magpie king continued to glare resolutely in Lionel’s direction and finding himself lacking the gall to continue this staring contest, he retreated back to his armchair, leaving the birds to their macabre feasting.
After making himself comfy, Lionel reached for last Thursday’s broadsheet (no new deliveries since the paper boy had been left in a coma following an encounter with an ill-tempered badger the week before) on the coffee table. The neatly folded collar lying hidden beneath the paper was an unwelcome reminder that at some point today he was going to have to venture outside and take care of unfinished business. He stared at the collar for just a moment, his eyes lingering on the single word lovingly engraved on the silver clasp, before banishing painful thoughts from his mind and turning his attention to re-reading the lead article in an attempt to delay the inevitable:-
MUTATION SPREADS TO DOMESTIC ANIMALS!
“Scientists still no closer to combating Occold virus”
The name ‘Occold’ was first coined by the scientific community about a week or so after ‘The Event’ actually took place and is a reference to the location of the biological research facility where this new and extremely virulent threat to national security was first unleashed.
According to information received by this reporter from a source within the facility; footage from the internal surveillance systems suggests that the current crisis was the result of an unfortunate accident. Whilst supposedly working on utilising recombinant DNA for cancer therapy, a small team of particularly unfortunate boffins somehow managed to create an ‘unstable in vivo virus’ which had the unexpected effect of ‘triggering cascade genetic alterations in living cells at an alarming rate’.
This mutation in itself might not have presented a particularly large problem, given that all experimentation on the project was being carried out in a sealed lab environment as a precautionary measure. However, the fact that patient zero happened to be the heavily tranquilised 450 lb male mountain gorilla lying on the lab operating table at the time proved to be a much more serious matter. One which was complicated further when the rapid genetic alterations taking place also apparently neutralised the substantial dose of tranquilisers present in the silverback’s bloodstream and the rather bewildered animal arose suddenly from slumber to find itself trapped in an eight by twelve glass cage filled with sharp pointy instruments and three extremely terrified scientists. The understandably upset animal proceeded to butcher his gaolers in particularly gruesome fashion; crushing skulls and rending several limbs from bodies before making his exit through the nearest glass wall and running amok through the facility.
Through a series of further unfortunate mishaps, it transpires that the enraged gorilla then managed to escape from the facility itself into the surrounding countryside, leaving behind a trail of bloody carnage and destruction in its wake. Realising that this could no longer be classified as a simple internal security matter, the research company was left with no choice but to contact the local authorities and notify them of the somewhat alarming prospect of a large genetically altered primate running loose in the English countryside.
Of course the national media was alerted to this too-good-to-miss story within the first hour and by noon that day, the majority of the county of Suffolk found itself being closely scrutinised by a combination of law enforcement officials, zoological experts, animal rights campaigners and journalists. Along with these assembled professionals came an assortment of enthusiastic members of the public armed to the teeth with a variety of entirely useless paraphernalia, ranging from cans of pepper spray to over-sized fishing nets.
Given the contrasting ethea of the various factions, co-ordination of the search unsurprisingly proved to be a nightmare. The scientific experts present decided that getting as close as possible to shoot the possibly rabid animal up with tranquilisers was the best course of action, but found themselves at odds with the animal welfare types as to whether chasing the poor creature around the countryside for several hours would cause it unnecessary distress. The gun-toting authoritarians were of a mind to simply put the crazed animal down as quickly and efficiently as possible so as not to endanger the general public, but had a great deal of trouble preventing said general public from heading off half-cocked to track the gorilla down before them.
In the end, none of the assembled groups were able to lay claim to having tracked down the over-sized ape. That rather dubious honour went to a short, balding and decidedly plump, bespectacled gentlemen from Tunbridge Wells (who it later transpired was only passing through the county on a day-trip), after he somehow managed to hit the gorilla head-on with his 1983 Volvo Estate.
Despite having saved the surrounding populace from a severely dangerous biological menace and generally being hailed by most local people as a hero, the quiet little man seemed strangely more concerned as to which of the assembled parties was going to compensate him for the substantial damage to his vehicle’s radiator and front headlights. Sadly, this fortuitous traffic accident did not take place before the afore-mentioned rogue science experiment had rampaged through half the county, infecting almost every genus of wildlife it came into direct physical contact with.
Thankfully it seems that at this point, the virus has chosen not to mutate further into an airborne variant. However the numerous small animal carcasses, upon which the evidently hungry ape fed during those first few hours of freedom, were unfortunately not discovered soon enough to prevent a host of other opportunistic creatures from also feeding on the same infected flesh.
The mangled body of the ape was of course disposed of immediately by a government biohazard team and the surrounding area rigorously sterilised, but after about a week, the reports of further sporadic incidents began to appear and it quickly became clear that something had gone terribly wrong.
Like a bear stirring from deep hibernation, the parliamentary bureaucracy slowly and painstakingly began to take steps to decide as to what was the best course of action. The debate raged back and forth in the House
for days as the virus continued to spread unabated across South East England. By the time a plan was finally formulated, the authorities could no longer hope to contain the contagion and instead, regional animal control teams were hastily assembled from the ranks of local law enforcement and animal control organisations. Dispatched into the ever-widening infection area with orders to incinerate anything that moved and wasn’t human, these zoological death squads set about their own particular brand of pest control with extreme prejudice.
Alas, despite essentially razing the majority of Suffolk to the ground in a matter of days, the authorities soon came to the terrifying conclusion that the underlying problem was going to be the birds. Having fled the immediate area as soon as large-scale extermination began, the birds had the potential to travel great distances in a short space of time, thereby rendering any predictions about the overall map of infection completely useless. In addition, many varieties of common garden bird are located towards the lower end of the food chain and might soon find themselves fodder for a number of larger predators, thereby exacerbating the problem.
Beset by an increasingly rancorous barrage of public criticism, the severely cash-strapped government has finally elected to hand over responsibility for controlling any new infection hot spots to individual county councils, giving them complete freedom to deal with the matter how they see fit. Parliament of course maintains overall control via a small number of national ‘clean-up squads’ placed on high alert, ready to be dispatched to any areas encountering severe difficulties, but essentially our government has courageously decided to wash their hands of this whole sorry business.