The Infected Chronicles (Book 1): Origin

by Andie Fessey

  Her attacker sat astride her, holding the torn flesh to her mouth as her teeth ripped it apart.

  An elderly couple stood nearby, struggling with a young girl approximately eight years old, intent on biting either of them.

  The aged man struck at the girl with a tin filled, plastic carrier bag, as she clawed at his wife. Relentless amidst his onslaught, she grabbed his wife’s hand, lunging her head down and taking a couple of fingers in her mouth, biting deeply.

  Violently and rabidly she shook her, until finally, the fingers became detached from the hand, followed immediately by the woman’s heart-breaking scream of anguish.

  Grasping his chest, her husband slowly collapsed to the ground in front of the child, busy tearing the flesh from the digits held between her teeth.

  They watched as cars accelerated from the scene.

  Eve raised her hands to her mouth, watching one speeding car lose control, colliding with an elderly man desperately attempting to get out of harm’s way.

  Struck by the front of the car, he was violently carried into the side of a stationary van, the force of the collision nearly tearing him in two.

  Even from this distance, she clearly saw the torrent of blood erupting from his mouth, spraying across the crumpled bonnet.

  Staggering from the car, the driver stood dazed, before walking to the front of the vehicle.

  A figure shambling slowly nearby, grabbed him by his ear.

  She saw blood gushing from the wound, as his hands came up to stem the flow as he staggered away from his assailant.

  She could not prevent herself from vomiting onto the grass verge, as the figure placed the driver’s ear, into its mouth.

  “We have to get the fuck away from here,” Stumpy said, staring transfixed at the scene below.

  Kneeling in front of him, her hands upon her knees, she retched onto the grass.

  Kneeling, he placed a hand under her armpit to help her to her feet.

  Slowly, they made their way down the grass verge to the car.

  Leaning in through the window, he retrieved the baseball bat, lying in the foot-well behind the passenger seat.

  “Anything worth taking with us?” He asked.

  “Take with us where? I don’t know what you mean?”

  “I mean is there anything valuable in the car, in the boot or wherever? Anything you don’t want to leave behind?”

  Leaning into the passenger side of the car, moving across the seats to reach the sun visor, she flipped it down, removing the picture she kept there of her son.

  Opening the glove compartment, she rummaged through the various items in there.

  Locating a packet of cigarettes and a couple of disposable lighters, she placed these in her breast pocket, squeezing them behind her mobile telephone.

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  “I don’t think there is anything worthwhile in the back Hun.”

  Checking anyway, he located a tyre iron within the boot.

  Stepping away from car, he stretched his arm to pass the baseball bat to her, before stopping frozen.

  “What is it?” she asked, slowly following his gaze.

  A shambling figure of a man appeared from the road ahead.

  They could not make out his features from this distance, but ascertained he was the same as those maniacs wreaking havoc in the carpark.

  The way he walked, told them all they needed to know.

  Stumpy looked at him, the carnage below and the crashed car in the wall in the distance.

  “Quick,” he said, grabbing her hand.

  “Where are we going?”

  He pointed to the side of the grass, where the pavement ended.

  “We can get to the canal through there, hopefully away from all of this.”

  Rushing across the grass, they scrambled through the bracken bushes, finding themselves facing a six foot drop down to the towpath leading alongside the canal.

  He worked his legs over the edge, holding on with his hands, until feeling comfortable enough to let his body drop to the towpath below.

  “Jump,” he instructed her, holding his arms in front of him, “I’ll catch you.”

  “Will you fuck,” she replied, copying his actions to drop onto the path.

  “Now where?” She asked, adjusting her skirt, ridden up her long thighs.

  “If we keep following the canal in that direction for a few more miles, then we will be at the canal bridge near to Waterside Station Eve love,” he replied, pointing ahead of them.

  “Okay,” she replied, staring ahead at the long winding canal adjacent to the towpath on which they stood.

  “Let’s do it,” she said, retrieving the packet of cigarettes from her pocket.

  She continued to stare ahead as they walked.

  Around them they could hear shouting, screaming and crying.

  Ahead of them stood one of the turnstiles the council placed at intervals along the canal, preventing youths on motorbikes from causing mayhem.

  “Are you sure you’re okay Eve?” He asked, concerned, as she did not mention what happened to Alex at the pub since they left there earlier.

  “As well as I can be.”

  She stopped abruptly, turning to face him.

  “Look Stumpy love, I’m not in shock, but maybe when I try to sleep later, I’ll wake up screaming and you will have to put me in a bloody straight-jacket, but for now, I’m fine. I have to be. We have to be.”

  He smiled sadly at her.

  He often admired her strength and resolve but this took it to another level entirely.

  He stood on his toes to peer over her shoulder as she stood in front of him, twisting slightly so he could see behind her.

  “Err Eve?” He said, urgently.

  “Yes.”

  “I think we have company.”

  She turned around quickly.

  A dozen or so yards behind them, a figure of another man stumbled from the undergrowth onto the path.

  Falling onto his hands and knees, he struggled to stand.

  “Should we go back and help him Eve? He may be okay you know? ‘Normal’ like us and he could be hurt...”

  He was interrupted by a terrible groaning noise, originating from the figure.

  “Fuck that!” Eve replied, grabbing his arm as she ran to the gate, Stumpy stumbling along behind her.

  The man, now arisen to his feet, slowly made his way closer to them.

  “Oh, Jesus, oh fuck, oh Jesus oh fuck…” Stumpy repeated.

  The man moved awkwardly, Stumpy noticing one of his calves sat at a strange angle in comparison to the rest of his leg.

  It appeared the bone may have snapped at an earlier point, but he did not feel in the mood to ask if he possessed the appropriate medical insurance.

  Reaching the turnstile, they were hampered as due to its design, only one person could get through at a time.

  She managed to get through but he struggled, until he slipped forward, banging his head against one of the metal bars forming the barrier.

  She looked at the slowly approaching figure, before staring down at him.

  “Stumpy, what’s wrong? Hurry the fuck up!” She exclaimed, fighting to catch her breath.

  Bloody hell, I really have to cut down on the fags.

  “I can’t,” he gasped, staring from his crouched position.

  “Why the fuck not?”

  “I’ve got my boot stuck under the fucking bar.”

  “Oh, for fucks sake, you’re not a teenage bimbo in a bloody Hammer horror movie! Just take your bloody boot off and get your arse on this side!”

  He lifted his trouser leg, so she could see the many eyelets which his lace weaved through.

  “Oh, for fucks sake,” she said, placing the bat down and climbing the turnstile to be at his side.

  “Stay over there,” he said.

  “No chance love, I’ll sort it.”

  She stared nervously at the figure of the man, continuing his staggering amble to
them.

  By turning Stumpy’s trapped foot slightly, she managed to get it loose, then using the turnstile returned to the other side.

  Stumpy rose to his full, albeit short, height.

  Turning, he found the slowly approaching figure only a few yards away.

  He quickly searched the floor, but could not see the dropped tire iron.

  “Fucking BUPA,” he muttered.

  “What?” Eve asked, confused.

  “Nothing Eve,” he replied, turning to face the approaching man, closer than Stumpy thought he would be.

  “Eve,” he said, hearing the incessant clicking of the figures teeth as he drew nearer, “pass it to me.”

  “Pass you what?” Eve replied, confused.

  “The bat.”

  She stared at the macabre scene playing out in front of her.

  Stumpy’s back to her, a few yards in front of him, the figure of the man ambling slowly closer to them.

  “Fuck off Stumpy, get your arse to this side.”

  “Pass me the bat,” he said, backing from the figure until he struck the turnstile.

  “Don’t you go all fucking Liam Neeson on me, get over here NOW!”

  “No, pass me the bat.”

  “Stumpy, please,” she pleaded, “it’s not a bloody game. Get over here now.”

  Turning and looking at him, she realised tears fell down his cheeks.

  “And what happens when you need me to do this Eve?” He asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What happens? What happens if I can’t? What happens if I can’t do it because I am too scared to?”

  His voice rose loudly.

  “I have to Eve because if I don’t do it now, I may not be able to when you need me most!”

  He turned to look at the approaching figure, before returning his gaze to her.

  “Now Eve, please, give me the fucking bat,” he demanded, his voice now calm.

  “Stumpy, please just get the fuck over here,” she begged, staring at him with her deep, dark eyes under a furrowed brow, as he pleaded with her.

  He stood resolute, so she reluctantly handed him the baseball bat.

  Taking it in both hands, he turned to find the figure facing him, standing head and shoulders taller than him.

  Stumpy could clearly see the blood-stained tibia sticking from a tear in the man’s jogging bottoms.

  His eyes, completely bloodshot, held not a trace of white, dark pupils swimming amidst orbs of crimson.

  Amid a pale face, loomed thick, black veins.

  His bloody, grimacing mouth opened wide and from it emitted a low guttural, rasping moan, his teeth as clacking together repeatedly.

  Grasping the baseball bat tightly, in one swift movement he twisted his hips at the grotesque figure, bringing the bat up with all his strength, striking the man under the jaw.

  Eve heard the loud audible crack from where she stood.

  The man’s head snapped hard, immediately snapping the top vertebrae of his spine, bloodied teeth flying from his mouth as he stumbled, arms flailing, into the waters of the canal.

  “Fucking Hell!” Eve exclaimed.

  Shakily, he worked his way through the turnstiles to stand directly in front of her.

  “Stumpy that was…”

  Stopping speaking, she quickly rushed forward to grab him, as he fainted in front of her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Father Craig looked down at the members of public and tourists, amassed within the vast interior of the enormous cathedral.

  Several of the people below were using their mobile telephones to take photographs, despite the advisory signs throughout the cathedral announcing this was strictly prohibited.

  This was another idea raised by the ‘committee’ to attempt to raise funds to keep the majestic building maintained. The committee deciding, though he himself stood amongst those not agreeing, to implement the new policy, figuring if people were unable to take their own photographs, they would be inclined to pay for those on sale in the gift shop.

  Continuing to walk along the wooden walkway, it allowed him a wondrous view of the cathedral, until he reached one of the many spiral staircases which were incorporated into the buildings design.

  Cautiously, he traversed down the steps.

  Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he removed the thickly knotted rope acting as a barrier, preventing the public from accessing the upper recesses of the cathedral.

  “Father,” a woman’s voice spoke, as he placed the rope into place.

  Turning around, he found himself facing Katherine, one of the volunteers who helped on a daily basis.

  “Yes Katherine?”

  “Are the services going to go ahead as planned today?”

  “Of course, Katherine,” he replied, smiling, “why do you ask?”

  “We’ve been listening to the radio in the canteen. Those horrible attacks have been occurring all over the city,” she said in a hushed tone.

  Placing his hand upon her shoulder, he looked down at her.

  At well over six and a half feet tall with an extremely broad physique and short cropped steel grey hair, he looked more like an American wrestler than a member of the church. But the calming tone of his voice and his overall mannerisms, put even the most nervous of parishioners at ease with his physical appearance.

  “There certainly have been some dreadful instances,” he replied, “I listened to the news on the radio myself over breakfast. The poor victims and their families are both in my prayers and in the service for this evening.”

  “Hopefully the police will be able to sort it out soon enough,” she said, “it’s causing problems all over the city.”

  “Causing problems all over the city? In what way Katherine?”

  “They’ve suspended all of the trains entering into City Station whilst they are investigating the train where those people were attacked,” she replied, “Dawn, who works in the café, has telephoned in to say she is running late, because she couldn’t get into town and is trying to get a taxi. Even the bus service has been affected.”

  “The repercussions of the acts of men,” he said, as they made their way across the huge expanse of the cathedrals beautiful interior, “I am certain the constables will ensure we are safe from any form of trouble.”

  Following a long tradition dating through the centuries to the thirteenth century, the Cathedral stood as one of only a few British Cathedrals remaining to have its own private constabulary.

  The constables based there, always endeavouring to maintain both the history and the tradition of what are known as ecclesiastical constables.

  Working in shifts of two, managed by one Head constable, the team consisted of ten men, wearing uniforms similar in appearance, to those worn by regular police officers.

  The constables were based at a single story building close to the main entrance of the Cathedrals property. In addition to the manned services provided, they were also assisted by a state of the art array of CCTV cameras, covering most of the grounds.

  A party of people entering via one of the side doors were gathered near the donations box, waiting to begin one of the daily regular tours.

  “It seems that we do have another visit on our hands Katherine, the fourth of the day already,” he said, smiling at her, “hopefully it is a good sign for the festivities later.”

  “I am sure it is Father.”

  “Bishop Connolly chose his timing well to be visiting Jersey,” he said quietly, as they passed by the front row of pews, “let us just hope I am up to the task at hand.”

  “Oh Father, you know that you are more than capable,” she replied, “we are all really looking forward to it. The bell ringers were in the café yesterday with the people from the Campanology society and the Record people. They were all excited at the prospect this evening.”

  “If they can get anywhere close to the record then that will be a good enough cause for celebration,” he said as they reached the me
zzanine café, holding the door for her, “but I will be content enough, it goes well in Bishop Connolly’s absence.”

  The world record for the heaviest eight bell peal, ringing over five thousand changes without stopping, was achieved a few years earlier as part of the city’s celebrations of becoming the European Capital of Culture.

  “Please stop worrying Father, it will all be fine,” she said, turning to him smiling, “now come and sit down and I will fetch you a nice cup of tea.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The automatic doors located at the front of the Saddlery store, opened with a light hissing noise as Jake, Abigail and Nate entered.

  A few cars were parked in the carpark, but they parked the horsebox as close to the doors, as they safely could.

  Nate suggested leaving the doors open, in case they needed to quickly return to its safe confines, but Jake did not relish the prospect of somebody entering the box, whilst they were away from it.

  They constantly attempted to contact the police on the way to the saddlery, but to no avail.

  They also gave up on the idea of attempting to flag down one of the police vehicles they encountered, speeding in the opposite direction towards the city, sirens blazing.

  “Hello!” Jake called as they entered the shop, but received no reply.

  They stood waiting for a few minutes, but there appeared no sign of life.

  “Why would it be empty?” Nate asked.

  “I’ve no idea love,” Abigail replied, “but we still need to get some supplies before we head across to the Pennines.”

  The store was the equestrian equivalent of a major supermarket, stocking everything from riding hats, horse rugs, saddles and feed to children’s horse related toys and colouring books.

  “Sorry,” Jake would often say, holding his wallet to his face, when they visited before.

  “Hello!” a voice called from within the confines of the store.

  Stopping, they waited cautiously to see who else stood in the store with them.

  A woman’s face appeared from around one of the aisles. Looking to be in her late fifties, she possessed the red complexion of somebody who spent a lot of time outdoors.

  “Hello there,” Jake said, “is there anybody else in here with you?”

  “Why?” the woman asked, suspicious of the three strangers stood near the doorway.