The Bug: Complete Season One

by Barry J. Hutchison

  With a few taps he called the number back. He held his breath and waited. The cold breeze from the living room swirled into the bedroom and Marshall shivered in his thin pajamas.

  There was no sound from the phone. He checked the screen, which still claimed to be Dialing Number. It was taking it's time about it.

  Keeping the phone to his ear, Marshall slipped off his pajama bottoms and pulled on the discarded trousers. He'd tossed his boxers in the washing basket and the others were piled up with the other clothes on the couch. He'd have to go commando for now. It was, he reckoned, the least of his problems.

  He fumbled with the button and held the phone in the crook of his neck as he carefully zipped up the fly. Wriggling his bare feet into his shoes he checked the screen again. Still dialing.

  There was a streak of red across the phone's plastic screen guard. Marshall felt the back of his neck, saw the blood on his fingers and spat out a curse. There was a half-empty box of tissues within easy reach of the bed. He tugged one out and pressed it to his nape.

  He checked the screen again. It insisted it was dialing, but he was beginning to have grave fucking doubts. He returned the handset to his ear again, just in time for a garbled screech to come blasting out of the earpiece.

  He hissed sharply, yanking the phone away. The noise kept coming, screaming and squealing like a dial-up modem, growing louder and more frenetic with each second that passed. Marshall jabbed the icon to hang up, but the din didn't stop. It was the same sound his old ZX Spectrum used to make as it tried – and inevitably failed – to load a cassette, only this one wasn't stopping.

  The call had been ended. The screen was back showing the list of missed calls. But the noise kept coming.

  “Shut up,” he muttered, tapping the screen and jabbing at the buttons to try to mute the racket. “Shut up!”

  In the olden days, of course, you could have just yanked out the battery, but that was before some fucking bright spark had decided the battery should be sealed up.

  No matter what Marshall tried, the screeching didn't stop. He resorted to shaking the phone vigorously and slapping his hand against the screen, but neither one made any difference.

  With a cry of frustration he rammed the handset under his mattress, muting the din if not silencing it.

  He left the bedroom and pulled the door closed, dulling the noise further. His eyes fell on the broken window and he stared, as if seeing it for the first time. The body was gone, but he could still picture it there. A man. No, a teenager, he thought. Eyes open, mouth slack, brain oozing out of the hole in his mangled skull.

  Marshall shook his head, trying to push the image away. He checked the tissue. There was blood, but not too much, thankfully.

  The initial shock was beginning to fade, and the first few rational thoughts came creeping in. He'd seen definitely one, possibly two bodies come plunging past his window. Or into his window in one case. It was only now that what should probably have been his first question reared its head.

  Where had they come from?

  Slowly – ever so slowly – Martin Marshall's eyes went to the ceiling.

  THE RODGER'S FLAT, GLASGOW, SCOTLAND

  16 MINUTES EARLIER

  “Aye, but I like you. I really like you. I've fancied you for ages. And you like me, don't you?”

  Perched on the edge of her bed, Leanne nodded.

  “Well then. What's the problem?”

  Leanne lifted her head to look at the boy beside her. Dagan smiled. He had a nice smile. It was mischievous yet somehow honest at the same time, and made his dark eyes crinkle to narrow slits. He was seventeen – two years older than she was – and she still couldn't believe he was interested in her. Her!

  “You trust me, don't you?” Dagan asked. He made a move to stand up. “Because if you don't I'd better—”

  “Don't go,” Leanne said. The pleading tone in her voice surprised her. But then again, not really. Half the girls in school fancied Dagan, and if he walked out the door she had a feeling he'd never be back.

  The bed groaned as he sat down beside her, close in so his leg was touching hers. She hesitated, chewing her lip, then rested her head on his shoulder. They didn't talk, just sat there listening to the tinny tones of Ed Sheeran struggling from the speaker of Dagan's phone, and the creak creak creak of the bed next door.

  “Sounds like someone's having fun,” Dagan whispered, his breath hot against Leanne's neck.

  She giggled nervously. Owen, Dagan's friend was in the room next door with a girl in Leanne's year. Ashleigh something or other. Leanne didn't know her well. She was one of the quiet girls who hung out in the library every break time.

  At least she was normally quiet. Now… not so much. She yelped in time with every creak, a high-pitched yap of pleasure or pain or something in between.

  “She sounds like a monkey,” Dagan said. He scratched himself under the armpits. “Ooh, ooh, ooh!”

  Leanne lifted her head and laughed. She turned to Dagan, and first his eyes then his lips met hers. He felt warm against her. She shivered as his fingertips traced the contours of her back through her t-shirt, and as they brushed against her bra strap she felt her blood bloom up her neck, making her face go red.

  The strap tightened a fraction, then went loose as Dagan unclipped it through the thin cotton top. His lips brushed more firmly against hers, and she felt the tip of his tongue explore her mouth.

  He twisted towards her, using his weight to gently guide her down onto the bed. She squirmed as he turned her head away and began to nuzzle at her neck. Her fingers gripped her One Direction duvet and scrunched it tightly.

  The button of her jeans loosened with a pop and Dagan's hand thrust down inside, his gentle touch becoming more forceful. Through the wall, the headboard began to thud against the wall and Ashleigh-something's yelps were drowned out by Owen's breathless grunts.

  “Wait,” Leanne said. She caught Dagan's wrist. “Stop. My mum and dad.”

  Dagan drew back. “They're in Spain.”

  “I know but… I promised them I wouldn't... That nothing would...”

  “They'll never know,” Dagan insisted. He kicked off his shoes and wriggled out of his jeans, never once removing his hand from Leanne's. He leaned into kiss her again, but she shied away.

  Dagan yanked his hand free. “Jesus,” he snapped. “What are you, fucking twelve? I thought you said you were grown up? You're a wee kid.”

  “I'm not.”

  “Well quit fucking acting like it, then,” Dagan said, all softness gone from his voice. He pushed down his boxers and stepped closer. “Put it in your mouth,” he urged.

  Leanne shook her head and quickly turned away. Her eyes burned. She dug her fingernails into her palms and chewed on her lip. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn't cry.

  “Fuck's sake,” Dagan barked. He kicked her desk, knocking over the laptop he'd first contacted her on. “Give me my phone, I'm phoning Kit-Kat.”

  Leanne watched him snatch up the phone and shut up Ed Sheeran. She kept her gaze fixed on his top half, not letting it wander down there.

  “Wh-who's Kit-Kat?”

  “She's in my year. A fucking adult, no' a silly wee lassie. She knows the score.”

  He made a show of scrolling through his contact list.

  “Why do they call her Kit-Kat?”

  Dagan grinned, but this time there was no honesty or even mischief in it, just a sort of demented glee Leanne had never seen before. He held up a hand, the thumb tucked in tight against the palm. “Cos she likes four fingers.”

  Leanne let out a shaky breath. “Was she your girlfriend?”

  Dagan laughed. “Fuck me, you really are a kid, aren't you? Was she your girlfriend? Get with the fucking program, sweetheart, eh?”

  “Ow, stop!”

  Ashleigh-something's voice was sharp and sudden through the wall. The headboard had stopped thumping, but Owen's grunts came fast and loud, forming almost one continuous growl.

  �
�Stop, Owen, stop please!”

  Leanne stood up. Dagan blocked her path.

  “Leave it,” he said.

  “But she's—”

  “She's fine.”

  “Owen, please. Jesus! You're… stop! Stop! Don't!”

  “She's not fine,” Leanne said.

  Dagan loomed over her. “They're having fun,” he said, looking her up and down with contempt. “At least someone knows how to.”

  Leanne met his gaze and held it. Half the girls in school fancied him.

  What were they thinking?

  “Fuck you,” she said, and she brought her knee up sharply between his legs. His breath exploded from his lungs in a short sharp gasp and he sort of melted down onto the floor, clutching his groin and wheezing.

  Leanne stepped over him. She was halfway to her bedroom door when Ashleigh-something's screaming started. Not the pained protests she had been making, but full scale screams of panic.

  “Ashleigh?” Leanne shouted, racing into the narrow hallway. She made for the door to her parents' room where Ashleigh's screams had risen to fever pitch. “Ashleigh, are you—?”

  The door exploded outwards, filling the flat with the sound of splintering wood. A limp shape came hurtling through. It hit the laminate flooring, bounced once, then slid to a stop by Leanne's feet.

  Ashleigh-something was dead. That much was obvious, even to Leanne. Her head hung at a right angle to her body, twisted so it was looking back over her naked shoulder.

  Blood spurted like a fountain from a wound in her throat, spattering the walls and the floor. Leanne felt its warmth spray like a mist across her face. She pulled back, and that was when she saw Owen.

  He stood in her parents' bedroom, hunched over. He was naked, his bare skin slicked all over with smears of red. He was staring at his hands, his eyes wide, his fingers flexing in and out, in and out.

  Leanne let out a gasp and Owen's gaze flicked in her direction. His brow furrowed and his face twisted into a snarl. He launched himself at her like a sprinter off the starting blocks, going from stationary to full speed in the blink of an eye.

  Ducking into the living room, she slammed the door. Owen thudded against it from the other side. Again. Again. The force of the impact shook the walls and Leanne stumbled backwards as the door's hinges gave way with a KER-ACK.

  She turned, but there was nowhere to go, no other way out. Owen lumbered into the room, like he wasn't quite sure what he was doing there. The sight of Leanne seemed to jog his memory, though. The face drew up into a snarl once more and he hurled himself towards her, arms reaching, fingers curled up like claws.

  Leanne grabbed the glass ashtray from the coffee table and swung. It hit Owen on the temple with a sickening thonk. He staggered, thrown off balance, purple-red blood already flooding his right eye.

  It took just a second for him to recover. He pounced, moving too quickly this time. His fingernails dug into Leanne's forehead and cheeks and his weight brought her crashing down, his naked body pinning her to the floor.

  “S-stop!” she squealed. A hand was drawn away. She glanced up and—

  BANG! His fist smashed against her face, splitting open her cheek and snapping her head to the left.

  Owen roared and spat like a demented animal, but the sudden rushing sound in her ears all but drowned him out. She coughed and a trickle of vomit spilled out onto the carpet.

  The floor rolled beneath her like the deck of a boat, and shadows rushed in to fill her field of vision. The stink of Owen's sweat flooded her nostrils and smothered her lungs as he pressed down on her. She could only sob as his thumbs pressed against her eye sockets and the darkness was replaced by a rainbow of swirling colors.

  “What the fuck?”

  Dagan.

  Owen hissed and Leanne felt his weight spring off her.

  “Owen? What are you—?”

  There was a crash and a sharp yelp of pain. Leanne dragged herself backwards across the carpet, the blaze of color fading from her vision.

  She saw Dagan swing a punch at Owen. It cracked across his jaw, but Owen didn't flinch. He caught Dagan by the hair and pulled back suddenly, bending him backwards. Owen's fist struck like a hammer in the center of Dagan's face. Once. Twice.

  Dagan's howl burst in a bubble of blood on his lips. He held up his arms to shield himself, but Owen's teeth snapped down on his flesh, tearing free a chunk of skin and sinew.

  With a triumphant cry, Owen turned towards the window. He charged forwards, Dagan held in front of him like a toy.

  “N-no!” Leanne yelped, suddenly realising what was going to happen next. “No, no, don't!”

  The window erupted outwards as Owen forced Dagan backwards through the glass. For one frantic fleeting moment Dagan seemed to hang there in space, his eyes wide, his face a mangled mess of blood and snot.

  And then, like that, he was gone.

  Owen stood by the broken frame, his back to the room, chewing noisily on the chunk of meat in his mouth. Leanne looked to the door on the other side of the room. Could she make it? Owen seemed to have forgotten about her again. Maybe if she was quiet…

  Supporting herself on the wall, she stood up. The ashtray was still in her hand. She held it out like a shield and began to back towards the door.

  Owen stopped chewing. He cocked his head, like a dog listening to some distant sound, and Leanne knew in that moment she would never get away. He'd catch her before she even reached the hall. There was only one choice left.

  She closed the gap in four quick paces, the ashtray raised above her head. Owen spun, but by then she was swinging, bringing the heavy chunk of glass down, down, down with all her might.

  It caught Owen higher this time, just above where she'd hit him before. He buckled awkwardly, like a puppet whose strings had all been cut. His hands grasped limply at Leanne, but she hammered down with the ashtray again.

  Owen stumbled. He hit the gaping wound where the window had been and for a heart-stopping moment just stood there, flailing his arms and trying to catch his balance, his teeth still chomping furiously on the chunk of meat in his mouth.

  Leanne let out a sob as Owen seemed about to find his balance, but then he toppled past the point of no return, and fell screeching into the darkness.

  MARTIN MARSHALL'S FLAT, GLASGOW, SCOTLAND

  25th MAY, 12:09 AM

  Marshall stared at the TV. He pressed the channel up button on the remote. Rarely had the phrase 'Two hundred channels and nothing on' been quite so accurate.

  The terrestrial stations were mostly showing test cards, with 'Please stand by' and variations thereof assuring him things would be back to normal shortly.

  He'd almost let himself believe that, too. Until he flicked over to Channel 4. That was when he knew things were a long fucking way from normal.

  Tom Frost, the Channel 4 news anchor, was dead. Marshall knew this because he was right there on the screen, half on a chair and half off, his white hair matted and pink with his own blood.

  There was no sound from the studio. Either the place was in silence or the audio had been cut. Marshall turned over to the ITV test card and back again, as if that would somehow force the image to refresh, but Tom Frost was still dead when he flicked back. Still lying there. Still alone. Still. Silent.

  Marshall pushed on through the other channels. Channel 5 and Sky 1 had more test cards. He thumbed the channel up button again and almost sobbed with relief when a face – a living one – filled the screen.

  The relief quickly faded when he recognized the face as a young David Jason. It was an Only Fools and Horses repeat. The one with the chandelier by the looks of things. Marshall watched for a few lingering moments, almost allowing himself to believe things were fine. If Del Boy and Rodney weren't worried, then why should he be?

  He shook his head and continued up through the channels. Those that were still broadcasting showed repeats. The others offered apologies for the break in service, and vowed to be back soon.

&nbs
p; Marshall returned to Channel 4. The station's logo now filled the screen. Below it were the words “We apologies for the break in programming.”

  “Fuck the break in programming,” Marshall mumbled. “What about the break in Tom Frost's napper?”

  He switched the TV off and the room went dark. The remote fell to the floor with a clunk and Marshall puffed out his cheeks.

  What now?

  The landline was still dead. The mobile was still doing… whatever it was doing. He'd eventually realized he could just switch it off, but when he'd switched it back on the screeching sound had started all over again, so he'd shut it down again sharpish.

  With the phone down the internet was dead. There was his police radio, but he'd left it in the car, and the car right now seemed an awfully long way away.

  He should go get it, he knew. More than that, he should go get in the car and head to the station to find out what was going on. Hoon would have his balls in a vice for missing all those calls, but Marshall didn't care. He'd gladly tighten the fucking thing himself if it meant not being sat there all alone in the dark with no idea what he should be—

  There was a knock at the door. Marshall froze, suddenly regretting that last thought. He liked being alone. He loved being alone.

  But the knocking continued, soft at first, but quickly becoming sharper and more insistent.

  He peeled himself off the couch. The door was locked and the chain was pulled across, but that didn't make him feel any safer. He picked up the chef's knife he'd taken from the block in the kitchen and held it low by his side, blade pointing forward ready to deliver a sudden upwards stab if required.

  The knocking continued.

  Softly, quietly, Marshall made for the door. Holding his breath, he slid the little brass cover away from the spy hole. It scratched against the wood and the knocking immediately stopped.

  Heart pounding, Marshall leaned closer, putting his eyes to the spy hole. He grimaced when he saw the figure on the other side, and rested his head against the door.