The Bug: Complete Season One

by Barry J. Hutchison

  They wanted to turn away. They weren’t enjoying the experience, but there was something about it that held them transfixed.

  “That is…” Jaden began. It was a long time before he found the end of the sentence. “Upsetting.”

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” said Col, swallowing noisily.

  He tried turning his attention to the dozens of other people milling around aimlessly on the underground platform. Several of those were blood-splattered, too. Many of them gnashed their teeth at thin air, as if hungrily devouring something only they could see.

  “Not pretty, is it?” said Jaden’s mom, Amanda. She pressed a button on the front of the screen and the picture blinked into darkness. “Far as we can tell, those insects you saw turned all those people into… whatever they are.”

  “Zombies,” said Jaden. “They’re clearly zombies.”

  “They’re not… I don’t think… Stop calling them zombies,” Col protested.

  “He’s right,” said Mike in his southern drawl. He had slung his rifle over his shoulder, and now rested his hands on the butts of Jaden and Col’s guns, which were tucked into his camouflage belt. “They’re zombies. Or as near to that definition for it to be an acceptable one.”

  “Yeah, bitch!” said Jaden, punching Col on the arm. “Told you.”

  “What makes him the expert?” Col said, rubbing his arm. “They’re not zombies because there’s no such thing as zombies.”

  “So what are they, then?” Jaden asked.

  “People! They’re people!” Col said. He glanced at the darkened monitor, and could almost still see the woman elbow-deep in the Dunkin’ Donuts kid. “I mean, you know, really fucked up people, but still people.”

  “Well we have to call them something,” said Amanda.

  “People!” Col insisted, but Jaden shook his head.

  Jaden sighed. “OK, imagine the scene. We’re in a shopping mall. We’ve got people – by which I mean normal, non-face-eating human being people – on one side, and a load of batshit crazy dudes on the other. I say, ‘quick, Mike, shoot all those people!’ and poor Mike – poor, simple Mike who has literally no idea which group I’m referring to - massacres dozens of innocent bystanders by mistake,” Jaden said. “Do you want that on your conscience, Col? Do you want that on Mike’s conscience? If he has one? Because that’s what’ll happen.”

  “No it isn’t,” Col protested.

  “It is. Trust me,” Jaden insisted. “We need one name for the living, and one for the dead.”

  “They’re not dead, though!” Col said. “They’re just… infected or whatever.”

  “Why don’t we just call them ‘infected’ then?” Amanda suggested.

  Mike stepped between them. “Who gives a shit what we call them?” he barked. “Zombies. Infected. Fucked-up psycho assholes. We don’t need a damn naming ceremony, we need a way to get to the trains so we can get out of here and I can get back to base.”

  The others shifted awkwardly. “GI Joe makes a fair point,” said Jaden. He took a deep breath, then switched on both screens that showed the underground platforms.

  The first screen was still much as it was before, only now the woman had her face buried in the teenager’s open chest cavity, and not just her hands.

  The other screen showed the platforms from a different angle, and while there wasn’t quite the same visceral horror as on screen one, the overall picture was even more bleak.

  “Shit. There’s hundreds of them,” said Col.

  “Not quite. But dozens,” said Amanda. She pointed to a train standing at one of the platforms. “Doors have been closed on this one since before it all started,” she explained. “If we can get on board I can get us out. We’ll have to manually change some points along the way, and I think the chances of us getting all the way to New York are slim, but we can get somewhere.”

  “Somewhere’s better than here,” Jaden said.

  “Is it?” asked Col. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for us just to hang around here and wait to be rescued?”

  Jaden frowned. “A minute ago you were all ‘I want to go to New York and find my parents,’” he reminded him.

  “That’s before I saw any of that,” Col said, indicating the screens. “How are we supposed to get past all them? You saw what they did to the people in the station.”

  “Which people? The people people, or the zombie people?” Jaden asked. “See? Confusion. Boom! Point proved.”

  Mike leaned in and studied the screen. “How far is it to that platform?”

  “Not too far,” Amanda said. “Down the escalators and it’s pretty much right there. On a good day, from here, we could be there in just over a minute. Course, today isn’t anything close to a good day.”

  “The escalators are still on,” said Jaden, glancing at another of the security screens. “Are the elevators still working?”

  “Yeah,” said Amanda. “Why?”

  “If we can draw them all up the escalators while we head down in the elevator, then problem solved,” Jaden explained. “It’d at least thin them out.”

  “I could reverse the down escalator from here so it’s headed up,” Amanda said. “Make it more difficult for them to get back down.”

  Mike nodded slowly. “Could work,” he said. “Yeah. That could just work.”

  “OK, but one slight problem,” said Col. “How are we supposed to draw all those people up top?”

  Jaden slipped an arm across his friend’s shoulders. “You know, Col, my fleet-footed friend, it’s funny you should ask.”

  TYNDRUM, SCOTLAND

  May 24th, 5:46 AM

  DCI Hoon pulled on the handbrake, spat several obscenities at no-one in particular, then threw open the car door.

  Twenty or more vehicled were blocking the road, thanks to two in the middle which had met in a tangle of metal and breaking glass. It wasn’t the first pile-up he’d come across on the drive north, but he was going to miss the BMW he’d picked up after clambering over the last one.

  He gave the car’s roof a pat as he squinted against the drizzle. He’d passed through the village dozens of times in the past, sometimes stopping for fuel, food or a piss at the little shopping center. The center had a big picture of a smiling green Wellington boot on its sign, and despite all his self-proclaimed detective savvy, he’d never been able to figure out why.

  Actually, he wasn’t even sure the place qualified as a village, now he thought about it. It was a through-road with a couple of takeaways and a bus stop. Was that enough? Were those sufficient qualities to bestow villagedom on a place? He didn’t know. Nor, he realized, did he care.

  “Fuck, I must be tired,” he muttered, pulling his overcoat tighter around his neck to keep out the rain. The street lights were out, but the sky was lightening a little, making it easy enough for him to see. A few of the cars had their headlamps on, which helped to light the way. Of course, they’d probably all be useless by now, with their batteries almost drained, but he could see a couple of vehicles at the other end of the blockage that had potential.

  Hoon barely even bothered to glance around as he cut through the first few rows of abandoned cars. He’d come across a group of what he’d decided to call Buggers at the last stop, and they’d left him well alone. He liked to think it was because he was a hardy-looking bastard, but he suspected the insect writhing somewhere inside him probably had its fair share to do with it.

  It had stopped whispering to him now, but he could still feel it lurking like an interloper inside his head, watching the world through his eyes. It had been an unsettling feeling to begin with, but he was growing used to it now. A couple of times during the drive he had almost – almost – been grateful for the company.

  He gave the crashed cars a wide berth and took an easier route over the grass beside them. The rain was getting heavier now, but he could make out a black Audi TT turned sideways in the road beyond the jam. In the past, he’d always dismissed the TT as a hairdresser’s ca
r, but tearing north through Glencoe in one could be fun.

  Hoon was a few cars away from the Audi when he heard the whisper. At first, he thought it was the bug, but then it came again and he realized the sound wasn’t coming from inside his head at all.

  “Hey. Over here,” hissed a voice.

  Hoon blinked away the rain and looked around him. There was a large red van stuck in the queue of cars, its back doors open a few centimeters. Through the gap, Hoon could see someone watching him.

  “Can you help me?” asked the voice. Female, mid-twenties, Hoon guessed. “Please?”

  Hoon stopped walking, but didn’t move closer to the van. “What’s the problem, sweetheart?”

  “E-everyone went crazy,” the woman said. “They were… They were tearing everyone apart.”

  “Aye, I noticed,” said Hoon. He glanced at the Audi, then back at the van. “Are you on your own?”

  The woman sniffed noisily. “Yes. I hid in here when it all went… When everyone started fighting. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Well out you get. You can come with me,” Hoon said. “I’m headed north.”

  “I can’t,” the woman said.

  Hoon frowned. “How not?”

  “I’ve hurt my leg.”

  Hoon hesitated. “How did you manage that?”

  “One of them caught me. Before I could get in. He… I don’t know. He bit me or something.”

  “Or something?” said Hoon, striding over to the van. “What do you mean he bit your or something? Either he bit you or he--”

  Hoon pulled open the doors to find two men crouching in front of the woman. He didn’t get a change to study them too closely, his eyes drawn instead to the dirty great butcher’s knife one was holding, and the length of pipe the other wielded like a club.

  “Who the fuck are you pair?” he demanded, then he turned as he heard a scuffing on the road behind him.

  BAM! A rock cracked him across the side of the cheek. Pain exploded across his face, and his head was filled with the sharp, incessant whispers of the bug.

  Hoon raised a fist, but an arm wrapped around his throat from behind and tried to drag him into the van. He was heavier than he looked, though – and he looked damn heavy – and the owner of the arm had to settle for just holding him in place.

  The man with the rock bounced from foot to foot in front of him, his eyes darting to his friends in the van. He was young. Barely out of his teens, with a face full of plooks and a hairstyle Hoon wouldn’t tire of punching. He tossed the rock nervously from hand to hand, and spewed out a jumble of words.

  “We don’t, we’re not, we aren’t going to hurt you, alright?” he said.

  “Bit fucking late for that, ye spotty-faced prick,” Hoon spat, and the man behind him tightened his grip.

  “We just want your money. That’s it. Just, you know, give us your wallet.”

  Hoon wriggled his head until he could breathe again. “Money? What for? Have you noticed the shops aren’t exactly open for business?” He snorted. “Money. What a shower of fannies.”

  “Just give us your wallet,” the woman urged. She didn’t sound scared now, just impatient. Probably the brains of the outfit, Hoon guessed, although that wasn’t exactly saying much.

  Hoon’s wallet was in his coat pocket. He made a move to reach for it, but the whispers in his head protested. Worthless as it now was, he had worked hard for that money, the chittering told him. These people didn’t deserve it. These people must be punished.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Hoon whispered. The other man in the van leaned down, and the point of the knife suddenly pressed against the side of the DCI’s face.

  “You watch your mouth,” he warned.

  “Not you,” Hoon said. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He tensed as the bug’s whispers crept into all the corners of his head. He screwed his eyes shut. “I’m not listening. I’m not fucking listening to you,” he said, raising his voice to drown out the noise.

  Yes you are, said the bug. Yes you are.

  “Who’s he talking to?” the woman demanded. “Is he a nutter or something?”

  Hoon tried to reach for the wallet again, but his arms refused to move. He shot the kid with the rock an imploring gaze. “My pocket,” he gasped. “Wallet’s in my pocket. Take it quickly and go. Now.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are, giving orders?” the guy with the knife growled. He started to say more, but the hissing of the bug in Hoon’s head made it impossible to hear him.

  The guy with the rock leaned in, a hand reaching for Hoon’s pocket. The smell of sweat and fear swirled up Hoon’s nostrils. The bug howled and thrashed and whispered in a voice like thunder.

  Hoon caught the hand holding the knife, pulled it in front of him and sunk his teeth into the man’s wrist, biting deep into the flesh and splitting open his veins. As the guy screamed, Hoon tore the knife from his limp fingers and drove it deep into the neck of the kid with the rock.

  The van was filled with shouting and screaming. The teenager gargled and choked on the cold blade, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  The bug hissed at Hoon and he pulled the knife forwards, ripping it through the front of the lad’s throat. As the kid crumpled, Hoon thrust the knife backwards until it found a soft, fleshy part of the man holding him. The grip on his neck slackened at once, but Hoon stabbed again, again, again, the bug reveling in the sound of the metal tearing into flesh.

  Hoon was halfway through the fifth stab when he realized he still had a wrist between his teeth. Blood pumped from it like water from a burst pipe, filling his mouth and oozing down his chin. He pulled back and spat out as much of the blood as he could, then staggered away from the van. His fingers refused to let go of the knife’s handle at first, but he forced them, one-by-one, to release their grip. The knife clattered onto the road, and the sound of the bug fell silent.

  Two of the men lay dead. The third was on his back, sobbing as he frantically tried to stem the flow of blood from his wrist. The woman who had first called Hoon over cowered inside the van, a fine mist of red sprayed across her face. Hoon stared at her for several long seconds, his breath coming in spluttering gulps.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, then he reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and tossed it onto the ground.

  SOUTH STATION, BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  May 24th, 11:47 PM

  Col rocked on his heels, inhaling deeply through his nose. How did he let himself get talked into shit like this?

  The top of the escalators was directly ahead, just ten or so meters away. From where he was standing, Col could hear the growling and hissing of the people down on the platforms below. Every instinct was telling him to stay quiet and not let them hear him, but that wasn’t the plan.

  Over on the right, Jaden and Mike stood in the elevator, with Mike kneeling in front of them, rifle raised and ready to fire. Jaden gave Col a thumbs-up, then pretended to press the button that would send the lift down. Col almost smiled. Almost, but not quite.

  The elevator doors started to close, hit against Mike’s gun, then slid open again. Col exhaled through his mouth.

  The plan was simple. Too simple, Col suspected. In fact, he’d barely describe it as a plan at all. It was more a vague notion than an actual fully-developed strategy, and one he felt sure had a very high probability of going wrong.

  He was going to get the people downstairs to chase him upstairs. That, in a nutshell, was it. While he drew them away, the others would go down in the elevator, get the train ready to go, change as many of the track points as they could to get them as far south as possible, then Col would race down the escalator to join them.

  Col had quickly spotted a few places this could all go terribly wrong. He’d quite forcibly pointed them all out, too, yet here he was, rocking from foot to foot, building up the courage to do his thing.

  How did he let himself get talked into shit like this?

  He nodded once to Jaden and the others
in the elevator, then made his approach to the moving stairs. The sounds of the people below grew louder as he drew closer. He could see some of them now – their feet, at least – shuffling around. He could suddenly feel his own heartbeat. It made his whole body pulse as he stopped at the top of the escalator. He gave a final glance over at the elevator. Amanda smiled at him, but Col couldn’t tell if it was a smile of encouragement or pity.

  He took another breath.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Up here.”

  The texture of the sound below changed at once. The feet he had seen shuffling around suddenly stopped.

  “Come get me,” Col squeaked. He steadied himself and tried again, deeper this time. “Come up and get me.”

  And then came the movement. A middle-aged businesswoman, her blouse half-torn off so one bloodied breast hung out, bounded onto the moving steps and scrambled up them on her hands and knees, her face all twisted up in an animal snarl. Behind her, the platform became alive with movement.

  “Shit!” Col spat, turning and sliding on the polished floor. He kicked forwards like a sprinter, hurling himself towards the coffee stand at the far end of the station. The moving stairs launched the businesswoman into a running start, but she had lost a shoe, and her single heel made it difficult for her to keep up the pace.

  That wasn’t a problem for the people behind her, though. They barreled right over her, trampling her underfoot as they gave chase. Men, women, children even – their eyes narrowed, their teeth bared.

  A guy with a beard and boarder shorts quickly broke ahead of the rest of the pack. Col risked a glance back and felt something cold twist in the pit of his stomach. The beard was new, but he recognized the guy. Dave something, from school. Gatward, that was it.

  Dave Gatward, captain of the goddamn sprint team.