Hunger Kills

[swahilimonkfish]

A long form story idea I've been sitting on for a while. A survival horror WG multi-part story with twists for days. Here's the prologue, hope you enjoy

 

Prologue – They Kill

 

 

They are coming.

 

They’re coming and it’s all my fault.

 

“Walk away!” she yelled to me. “Walk away from me”

 

And she’s right. I know I should. It makes sense. It makes perfect logical sense. She’s a lost cause now. I know it, she knows it. She’s going to die and it’s all my fault.

 

“I can’t” I tell her. My eyes burn with tears, my voice scratchy with despair. With guilt. I look at her and I see fear in her eyes. Fear as she realises that she’s going to die and every experience she hasn’t yet had, she never will. I see steeliness in her eyes too. Strength and courage in the face of her own extinction. But, most painfully, I see anger in her eyes. Betrayal. She knows that this is my fault and her last thought on this mortal plane is not going to be one of forgiveness. People kid themselves, say they’ll be the better person in these situations. We’re not better people though. We’re not better people at all. I did this to her. I’m the reason that she’s going to die.

 

“Just go. Just go Alisha and whatever you do, don’t look back” she said through pained vocal chords. There was no use being quiet. The quiet wasn’t going to save anybody now. We were on Their radar and there’s nothing you can do when you’re on Their radar.

 

There’s a violent clatter in the distance that means that They are close. And soon, the woman staring at me is going to die. At it is all my fault.

 

She’s trying to do the noble thing. Sacrifice herself for me. I hate her for doing that. I don’t deserve it and she knows I don’t deserve it. I’m so angry that she’s doing this for me, but I’m too scared to stop her. I guess I’m just a good person second, and a coward first. So I do what she says. I go. I go and I don’t turn back.

 

I walk away slowly. Heavily. Each footstep toiling as if against a gradient. But I don’t turn back.

 

And one of Them is here now. I can hear it now. It’s lumbering power. It’s monstrous howl. A parched screech that mauls the air that it travels through. And all that stands between Them and me is her. I can hear her shouting at it angrily. Her voice scorching her throat as she yells in its direction. But I don’t turn back.

 

I keep on walking. Desperate to conserve the thin river of energy that I have. I want to run. My legs burn to run away from that beast behind me. But running would do no good. They always catch you in the end. No, the smarter play was to walk and not waste energy. Don’t give Them something to feed on. So I walk away. And I don’t turn back.

 

And the screeching stops. Silence floods the air like nuclear fallout. Her angry warcry dies and I know she’s died with it. It happened so quickly. I expected resistance. But one minute she’s screaming at Them and the next, she’s dead. And as I walk away, I turn back. And I see nothing of her any more. She’s gone now, as if she never was.

 

[swahilimonkfish]

Chapter 1 – Hunger Kills

 

8.51am. Sweat’s running down my brow. Another nightmare. The same nightmare. The same memory. The same inescapable haunting that wraps around my brain and suffocates it. Trapped in a funnel spider’s web. It all comes back to mum’s death. Every time my eyes close, it always goes back to mum’s death.

 

I need to get up though. Quickly. Come on Alisha, I need to hurry. It’s 8.53am now and that doesn’t leave me much time. Shit, that’s late. I should never lead it this late. It’s just, I’ve been so tired lately. I need to get up earlier. Cannot let this happen again. I can sleep when I’m dead.

 

There’s a granola bar in my bag. A fucking granola bar. Still, it should stop me getting hungry. For a bit. I mean, in my experience, it kick-starts my metabolism so it won’t buy me long. But it’s something. My last granola bar. After this, I’m all out.

 

I try to savour it. Draw it out. Drag it out. I try not to rush. I let it chew in my mouth, let the nuts cut my gums as I tumble-dry them, never rushing to swallow. This granola bar won’t keep Them at bay for long. But how long? I grab my notebook from my satchel and do the maths. 8.55am now. 99 calories in the bar. But plenty of carbs. That should help. Hopefully slow energy release. Plus the sugars from the fruit… let me cross-reference with previous times… I reckon I have until 10.52am before I start getting hungry again. 10.52am is my ticking clock.

 

I pull myself off the sofa. It isn’t my flat. It isn’t anybody’s flat any more. But it was somewhere off the main road where I could rest my head. To grab some sleep. Oh fuck I’m so tired. But I gotta get a move on. No time to inspect the place, no time to wonder what had happened to the previous occupants. There’s no food in the cupboards here and that’s all that mattered. On to the next place.

 

And towards the main road. A main roads where no people walked and no cars drove. Not any more. Not after Them. Along the tram track down the high street, that the weekday commuters and weekend shoppers used to take. This was my best chance of finding somewhere that hadn’t had another vulture prey upon it. Shops were always sacked, they were a dead end. Back when all this kicked off, those were the first port of call. Those early days before most of the world had been wiped away. I remember thinking it was like Black Friday. Like it was comparable to fighting over a TV set that had a reduced sale price. Things have changed a bit since then. Quieter. Uglier.

 

I head down an alleyway, hoping for some other properties. It’s 9.19am now. Not shops, properties are what I need. And there’s an hour and a half to go. An hour and a half before I get hungry. An hour and a half before They come. There’s nothing down here and I feel that sense of dread stir at the base of my stomach again. Things have been getting more and more desperate for a while. Calls have been getting closer and closer. I’ve been hanging on by my fingernails for a while now. It’s only a matter of time before I can’t hold on any more. Before one of those fingernails snap.

 

There’s a block of flats across the way. Hope. Surely someone somewhere has left something for me to eat in this architectural carbuncle in the middle of the city. I have nearly an hour to go now and I can feel the cloud hanging over me now. I know I haven’t got long now.

 

But I try to stay calm. Keep my breath under control. And out. And in. And out again. Come on Alisha, stay focused. Keep your head in the game. And in. And out again. And 9.32am. And shit. And fuck. And out again.

 

I get to the flats and I see it straight away. Bordered up entrance. Wood right across the main entrance. Unbroken. People lived here? Had they managed to fend Them off in here? Was there enough food in here to keep Them out all of this time? Shit. What do I do now?

 

I took a moment. And in. And out again. If there was enough food to sustain people this long, then there must be a lot of food. And I was desperate now. I couldn’t turn away from a trove like this. Could I?

 

I sat down outside the place and cried. I could. I should. I should break in and rummage through the place, scouring for anything to eat. Tins. Tins would have been perfect. But anything would have done. But I can’t. I can’t, can I? I just can’t face it. I can’t face it because I can’t face people. In this building are people weathering the storm. And if I go and break in, then they’ll weather the storm a little less. I can’t do that. I can’t take someone’s last meal. Not again. Not again. Not again. And breathe, Alisha. Breathe. Breathe in. And out. Come on, keep your breath. And in. And out again.

 

No. No humans. That’s the rule. Avoid people at all costs. Because they’ll get you killed or you’ll get them killed. Humans are liability. They are the potential for something to go wrong. Humans are danger and the rule is avoid them at all cost. I have just one rule. An absolute rule, not for flexing. No humans. So no block of flats. I needed somewhere else. It is 10.03am, I have 50 minutes until They come for me and I need to find somewhere else. Somewhere more residential.

 

Like down towards Broomhall? It’s about a 30 minute walk from here so I don’t have a lot of time. But I don’t have a lot of options. So I walk.

 

And walk.

 

10.15am.

 

And walk.

 

And walk.

 

10.28am.

 

I walk a bit faster. I’m feeling nervous. But walking faster doesn’t help. That just burns the calories faster, it’s a false economy. But I’m getting worried now. I’ve gambled and I think I’ve lost. And breathe, Alisha. In, come on, and out again. Come on, you can do this.

 

And walk.

 

10.34am

 

10.37am.

 

10.37am and that’s when I feel it. That trickle up to my cerebral cortex to tell me I’m starting to get hungry. That’s earlier than normal. 10.37am and They’re coming.

 

I look around to gather my bearings. The quiet abandoned streets of a once-thriving city. Shops hollowed out, homes reduced to mausoleums. Roads so accustomed to being log-jammed with traffic, now laid barren by Them. All the markers of what once was, now reduced to silence and nothing. When they say that city centre high streets are dying, I don’t think this is what they had in mind. Sheffield is a corpse now.

 

I rummage in my rucksack, the nearest thing I have to a steed, but it’s in desperation not hope. No food, nothing. Just a morsel would have bought me some time, a crumb to deter them, anything, but no. No, I know there isn’t any in there. I’m looking but it’s only out of desperation. No, if I’m gonna find some food, I need to scavenge some. And I’ve just about gotten to Broomhall so I have a chance. I just need to get in one of these abandoned properties, and hope there’s something in there.

 

And that’s when I see one of Them. And it’s seen me. This is probably it for me then. May I rest in peace.

 

It hulks towards me. They look like nightmares made flesh, veiny green and improbably ambulating. Half-canter and half-crawl, like a lame animal through sewers. It’s locked onto me and there’s only one thing in the world that can save me. I need to have something to eat.

 

I look around at the properties nearby. Dead shops mainly, but old homes too now. Terraced houses with tired façades and weathered features. No idea if any of them are occupied, unoccupied or formerly occupied. No idea if any of them contain anything to eat. I don’t really have that luxury. I just need to take a punt and hope lady luck’s on my side once more.

 

My legs spring into life and I sprint to the one across the road. Just off the main street is a detached property, seemingly unperturbed by the chaos that They wrought. I see an open window on the second floor and if I can climb onto the garage roof, I should be able to get in. C’mon Alisha, you can do this. The Them is after me now, and I hear the horrifying sound of it announcing that it’s spied its prey. It’s reedier than a howl, yet louder and more piercing. I remember it well. And suddenly more of Them start to appear. And They are all chasing after me.

 

I get to the property and my legs are already burning and heavy. My chest is already clawing at my ribcage. I need to shimmy up the drainpipe, but I’ve never really done anything like that before. I can do this though. I can do this. I clasp the drain with my hands and upper arms as tightly as I can, so tight that I can feel it digging sharply into the skin of my forearms, piercing skin. I wrap my legs around it too, and push up as quickly as I can. With small movements, I repeat, grunting and grimacing as I get higher and higher. It feels impossible, like my muscles are telling me to give up with every pull, but I just gnash my teeth tighter and tighter as I scale it. I can finally reach the garage roof now and heave myself up, straining every sinew to grip tightly. If I fall, I die. It’s as simple as that.

 

I’m up onto it now and, on hands and knees, I clamber to the open window. The incline of the roof is steeper and more disorienting than I imagined, but I scamper to it. I don’t fall. I don’t die. Not yet anyway. I feel sick at this point. Flecks of vomit are curdling in my stomach. I climb in clumsily, banging loudly, bruising my knees. Fuck that hurt. I rush to close the window, and lock it shut. The first Them is rapidly approaching the property and a closed window isn’t going to slow it down very long. I can feel that familiar pain of my heart beating at the inside of my ribcage, trying to get out. Because if it doesn’t, it will probably get eaten too. I need to pause and get my breath back, but I don’t have that luxury either. I can hear one of Them climbing onto the garage roof now. Though, given its size and strength, it does so a lot easier than I did.

 

I rush across to the landing, banging clumsily into the railing while the Them bursts through the window. My legs are so weak now, so much so that I almost fall down the stairs. But the first of Them is close behind. I can hear the colossal weight of the thing as its limbs hit the floor with each movement, the straining and creaking of the floorboards as it shambles towards me.

 

Downstairs and I’m opening doors in a mad frenzy, hoping one of them leads to a kitchen, or better still, a pantry. One of them, surely. I try the first door as soon as I land downstairs. Nope. Another. To an internal garage. I bang loudly as I throw things wide open but I don’t care. Stealth isn’t an option right now, only speed is. Inside, I can see people lived here, and that they no longer do. It sounds cruel, but I hope they got eaten by Them. That means they might have left some food behind. Cos I could really do with a chicken sandwich right now. A chicken sandwich might just about save my life.

 

Another ones barged through the door. The front door. And now my number’s really up. I scamper to the only unopened downstairs room and close the door behind me. Thank fuck, it’s a kitchen. I try to jam it with an ironing board, of all things, but doing that probably cost me more time than it saved me. As quickly as I can, I open as many cupboards as I can. The ones under the sink. Nothing. The ones over the sink. Just mugs and plates. Fuck. I’m in trouble now.

 

The door flies open, the ironing board snapping at its centrepoint as They come into the kitchen and size up their meal. I try another cupboard. More plates. How many plates did this family fucking need? I can hear Them now, the wetness of them as they draw near. The dampness of each of Their steps dripping on the linoleum. No use fighting them, I just need to find…

 

...Oreos. A pack of Oreos. I rip into them and swallow them as quickly as I can. One after another, I eat. My back is to Them. I can’t see Them. I daren’t see Them. Whatever I do, don’t turn back. I can feel the cold shadow of Them as they draw in on me and I simply don’t have the nerve to look. I just prey that these Oreos hit my stomach soon. A third monster now shows up in the kitchen, loudly clanging as it draws upon me, its meal, and there really isn’t much room for all three of them. I withdraw into the corner and cower, very little elsewhere to go. There’s nowhere else now for my eyes to go apart from stare at the creature as it seemingly pulls itself apart at the seams and opens its entire body as if on a hinge to swallow me.

 

The inside of the creature is grotesque. The outside is a sickly light green, but internally its an acrid black, festering and fetid. It looks like how a hangover feels. It looks like an apocalypse. That’s the best description I have. It looks like an apocalypse. Slowly, and it is moving slowly now, the wide gape of it maw opens around me and there is nowhere left for me to go and nothing left for me to breath. This is it. And now it is my turn to be consumed, and wiped away since I never existed in the first place. Each and every trace of me, swallowed and digested without even a reminder of who once was. This is it for me. My comeuppance I guess. My retribution. I hope there isn’t a Hell, cos if there is, I’m going there. I hope there’s just darkness and nothing. Because that doesn’t feel so different to here and now.

 

And then it stops. It freezes, as if turned to stone, its body or mouth or whatever it is, is around me and surrounding me and it just stops. It’s encroaching craw drawing to a standstill all around me and then it just stops. I’m shrouded from the daylight by it, and everything is black, but nothing is moving. Everything is still. I guess the Oreos have hit my stomach. I guess I’m no longer hungry. And, therefore, I guess they’re no longer hungry too. Because that’s what drives Them. They feast on our hunger.

 

I slowly, carefully, and in near pitch darkness, open another couple of Oreos and eat them. Normally I wouldn’t be so reckless. I would savour every crumb, hoping to appease my appetite by increment, but when you are literally in the belly of the beast, there’s not much room for manoeuvre. I couldn’t take the risk. And I was stuck. Walled in, inside the open mouth of the beast, and there was nothing I can do. Any nudge, the slightest touch, would set it to spring like a bear trap. I just had to hope this pack of Oreos could stave off my hunger long enough for something to attract its attention elsewhere. And breathe Alisha. In and out. You can do this. Just in and out. In… yep, and then out again. Keep control of your breath. Keep control.

 

Sitting down and slowly chewing these Oreos, hushed in Them’s darkness, I remember when this first started happening, when Them first broke in the news. Nobody knew anything but rumours and scaremongering at that point. Monsters. Aliens. Nobody knew. They ate people and there wasn’t a lot you could do about it. Tanks couldn’t stop them. Bombs couldn’t stop them. They were plague incarnate, and they were spreading.

 

I remember the shock of it. The panic. Here, in Britain, with flights cancelled and the Channel Tunnel sealed off, we hoped we were hermetically sealed off. Typical British arrogance. But nothing gets between Them and a good meal. Not even an ocean. We were not safe. Nobody was safe. As long as you were hungry, you were dead meat.

 

Because, by the time it struck Britain, we knew it was hunger they responded to. Nothing else but hunger. They fed on our hunger. Our hunger was their fuel. Not just rumbling stomachs and pangs, but even a simple spot of peckishness can attract Them from about a 2 mile radius. You have to stay on top of your appetite, or they get to satisfy their appetite. You get hungry, then you get got.

 

They are only prompted by food, but they will kill you if provoked. Tanks, fighter jets, all thought they could take on Them. Some fell. They weren’t impervious to fire and brimstone. But, they were too hungry, too angry when provoked. Too fast. Too strong. Too many. Just way too many. So all attacks failed. Quickly. These monsters were not like anything else. You simply didn’t stand a chance unless you had a full stomach. So, while I’m stuck in the agape cavern of this creature’s stomach or mouth or whatever it is, all I can do is periodically eat Oreos and pray they last long enough for the creature to move away from me, so I can escape. For it to pick up someone else’s unsatiated scent.

 

I open the packet and try to read the number of calories, but it’s so dark in here. And so damp. Like a seawater cave. I try to do the maths, to gauge the frequency of consumption. How many calories consumed versus burnt. I try to monitor it all. I have to stay on top of these things. One slip, one numerical oversight and I’m fodder. I try to eat at regular intervals, and monitor when and how much I eat. I have hooked to my jeans a manual pedometer that tracks how many steps I’ve taken, so I know how far I’ve walked. All trying to balance and offset exertion with intake. But, for now, all I can do is wait in the dark.

 

I eat another Oreo. I have no idea how long this creature has had its jaw around me. My watch is analogue, which is great since it relies on clockwork for accuracy and not satellite signals that we no longer receive. But awkward when it’s dark. But I would guess half an hour. I should count really. Keep track of things. Plus, it will help with the breathing. One mississippi, two mississippi.

 

I hope there’s somebody out there about to get hungry. It’s cruel, I know, but it’s a cruel world we live in now. I’ve seen cruelty, I’ve wielded cruelty. It’s the only reason I’m alive. Twenty mississippi, twenty one mississippi. The problem is that there are so few people left. They saw to that. Unsustainably thinning our herd, killing people in swathes. A firing squad of consumptive annihilation. A panhuman holocaust. Hunger doesn’t discriminate and so neither do They. And now there are so few people left. A terrifying fraction of the hundreds of thousands that used to live in Sheffield here. The haunting consequence of starvation becomes a readily approaching menace. I just need one of those remaining people alive, just one of them to fall foul of hunger. Eighty three mississippi, eighty four mississippi.

 

It was the power cuts that did for so many. Once power from the grid went, and frozen food thawed, and refrigerated food warmed, suddenly people got hungry quickly. And then Them got full just as quickly. And now I’m stuck here, breathing in air filtered through fetid lungs of this disgusting beast, praying for one more person to fall. 304 mississippi, 305 mississippi. They can’t be outran, or outfought, just staved off. But they are inevitable and I fear that my hourglass has just run out of sand. 1013 mississippi, 1014 mississippi. It’s a desperate life. A futile life. Just railing against the dying of the light. Death is coming for all of us. We’re all just running until it catches up with us. Maybe my running days are over. Maybe this is it. 2111 mississippi, 2112 mississippi. Maybe another Oreo, just to be safe.

 

And then something changes.

 

Something triggers one of the monsters in the room to twitch. They always stay stony still when not activated. Conserving energy, for a guess. Hibernation maybe. Which is what I do. Careful to stretch out every calorie consumed as far as I can. So every morsel goes further. But one of them is moving, I can hear it. The squelch of each placed footprint. No it has left the room, I swear I can hear it leaving the room. Is this it? Is this hope? I can hear it slowly waddling out as it picks up its scent. 3098 mississippi, 3099 mississippi. Somebody else out there is peckish, and They are beginning to notice. I stay as still as I can, I strain to breath lightly so as not to aggravate Them, and hope, just desperately hope, that the one around me moves soon too. I’ve only got a couple of Oreos left and food doesn’t keep me full as long as it used to 4 months ago when it all went to shit. 3268 mississippi, 3269 mississippi.

 

I hear the call of the Them that left the building. That whistled roar that rips through the airwaves rather than travelling along them. 4126 mississippi, 4127 mississippi. The one I heard when I was spotted, I was located and I was identified as dinner. Someone else has been spotted, someone else has been located and someone else was identified as dinner. And, like in a nature documentary, Them begin to migrate away.

 

And finally, finally, the darkness evaporates and the stale air dissipates as the Them that had me in its very grasp, slowly pulls away from me. They lumber and heave, so very heavily through the destroyed front door and out into the neighbourhood, towards their new prey. And soon that weighted lumber accelerates and these otherworldly juggernauts accumulate speed and make their charge down the street. Somebody not too very far from here is having a very bad day. But that person was not me, and that was the important thing. Another close shave though, and I’ve been having a few of those recently. If this trend continues, then it’s gonna be me having one of them bad days. It would be only fair.

[Campbell Brown]

Wow. For one, your output is insane.

The premise is inspired and the narrative does not disappoint. It reminds me of Bird Box, albeit combined with Marlow's Planet XL. This is largely uncharted territory and I'm really eager to see where you take it, though my guess is it's going to be a tale of more than just mere survival. 

[swahilimonkfish]

9 hours ago, Campbell Brown said:

Wow. For one, your output is insane.

The premise is inspired and the narrative does not disappoint. It reminds me of Bird Box, albeit combined with Marlow's Planet XL. This is largely uncharted territory and I'm really eager to see where you take it, though my guess is it's going to be a tale of more than just mere survival. 

Cheers mate

It's actually not that impressive an output, I've had 70% of this written for about 3 months lol. I just needed to tie in some stuff to develop the character a bit more and hopefully play around with the tempo and working out how much to reveal and when.

Yeah, deffo aiming Bird Box/The Quiet Place vibes, well spotted. Glad they came through. 

[swahilimonkfish]

This chapter was supposed to be the exhale after the previous one's inhale. Slower pace, more introspective, and hopefully filling out the character and the world a bit more. WARNING though, it's dark in themes. Inspired by The Road, it is bleak and cruel.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

 

Chapter 2 – Family kills

 

 

4 months ago

 

“I’d love to help out dad, but I can’t. I’ve got to revise, sorry. I’ve got my final exams coming up” Alisha said to her father, not looking from the scraggles of notes that she was adding to, as she began her painstaking method of re-writing every textbook into her own words to help her remember the contents. She never read books to revise. Always, always, always her own hand-written notes. It was her golden rule. It was her system. And she had to have faith in the system.

“Tell me again, Ali, why did I pay to put you through university to study accountancy if, three years later you’re still doing exams to become an accountant?” her dad chuckled, considering himself to be funny.

“Oh come on, you know you only wind her up when you say that” Alisha’s mother scolded the father for his tired jokes.

“But she’s still working for an accountancy firm, she’s got the degree, I don’t see what’s so important about these exams?” her dad stood his ground, feigning ignorance to get under his daughter’s skin for his amusement.

“Because, if I pass this, I am an officially qualified accountant. Not a part-qualified accountant, not an accountant-in-waiting, not a trainee accountant, but an actual ACCA accredited accountant. It’s a big deal dad” Alisha stressed, not looking up but scrambling yet more notes down to reiterate ideas in her head. Accountancy standards and regulations, over and over again.

“Oh relax girl, you’ll be fine. My daughter will kick butt in this exam, like she always does. I’m proud of you girl, I’ll always be proud of you.” her dad said, his face softening as he told her.

“Hey, have all of you seen what’s happening on the telly? The news? It looks well sick” Alisha’s younger brother said whilst leaning on the bannister from the stairs, clearly having just scrambled down.

 

 

 

Back to the current day

 

 

I stayed still. As the stampede of grotesquerie left me alone and safe, I stayed still. Afraid to move. Breath still ragged. Hey. Focus. Remember your breathing. And in. And out. You know this. Stay focused. Stay with it. You’re safe now. You’re safe. And in. And out. Relax girl, you’ll be fine.

I looked around to see the mess that They left behind. The work surfaces were obliterated as if by hand grenade by Their terrifying entrance, the linoleum that they had stampeded upon were sticky wet, but also dented beneath the bulk of each lumbering step. The hanging light fitting had been ripped from the ceiling as the indistinguishable crest of their mulched mass grazed the ceiling and took the light with it. Smashed crockery littered the floor like a wasteland of fallen soldiers. And even the sink behind me, where I had huddled into a ball fearing the worst, had been crushed as if by wrecking ball. If there was still water in the pipe, it would have been spurting over me. Whatever They were, all I knew is that They were unstoppable.

And it smelled so bad. Reeked. That was Their calling card. The distinctive aroma of Beelzebub’s arsehole after curry night. Over the months, you get inured to it, to a degree. It must burn off the hairs in your nose or something. But, fuck, it was so bad right now. With three of them in such tight confines, with one of them little encasing me, the putrid fumes made me want to heave as much as my first encounter. Of course, I couldn’t puke. That would make my stomach empty. And that would be the end of me.

I looked at my watch, now visible in the daylight without the parasol of Their mouth drowning out light. 1.32pm. Shit. They’ll be back soon at this rate. Those Oreos won’t spare me for long. I pulled myself up, each joint aching from the tightly tensed position that I had held for so long. For nearly three hours. No wonder I ached.

I looked around, immediately on the prowl for more food. If they left behind the Oreos, then what else might they have left behind. There were very few doors on cupboards now, given how the lack of deftness that They possessed when they crashed into here, and I could see fairly quickly that this wasn’t to be a treasure trove of food. There was a pack of fig rolls though, in one of the top cupboards, so I grabbed that as I looked around the place. I opened the packet and started eating them as I walked around to see if I could work out what happened here. Before everything went Pete Tong.

I stepped into the living area, hoping, I dunno, maybe for another stash of food. Maybe some indication of where they might have some. It was a long shot, but I needed to calm down after what just happened. And I needed to show my respects to the household that saved my life. That was a rule. That was the system by which I lived. Show respect to those that save your life. And whoever it was that lived here, by leaving some stray packs of biscuits in the kitchen, saved my fucking life. So I show respect. I trust my system. I follow my rules.

Looking around, chewing on another fig roll as I did, I can see that the house is not as cluttered as most abandoned properties. There’s a show home feel about the sparsity around the place. No photos on tables, no paintings on walls, no half-completed jigsaws or loads of washing mid-cycle. It didn’t look like life just stopped here, like it did in so many places. It looked neatly put away. Tidied up. Like the people that lived here had moved out.

Back when it first went to shit, loads did. Too much 28 Days Later, too much The Walking Dead, people left the cities and built-up areas and headed for the countryside. Figuring it was safer out there. Live that off-the-grid life, I guess. Hunt your own food, catch your own fish. And stay away from populous areas. And maybe it worked. I dunno. Maybe there are loads of people out there camping out in cottages and bothies, and pretending their living their cabin-in-the-woods fantasy. But my guess is that they’re as dead as everyone else. Sure, there would be fewer of Them, since They tended to congregate where They thought They were most likely to sense hunger. But there were just so many of Them. Nowhere was safe. Nowhere was removed. Nowhere was off Their grid. No matter where you were, no matter how remotely you resided, your hunger was a dinner bell and They would travel any distance to answer it. Which is why I stayed in the city, where at least there was food.

I went from the living room to the dining room. It was a nice property for somewhere so central to the city. A three or four bedroom detached place. Decent sized rooms. External garage. Must have been a comfortably off family. Not so well off as to do something about the wallpaper though. Wallpaper that stopped being fashionable in the 70’s. I mean, who has wallpaper any more, anyway? I pop another fig roll in my mouth as I wonder.

And it’s looking at the walls, that I notice it. The weathered wallpaper, faded with decades of sunlight, had square marks on the wall. Square marks where the sun hadn’t eroded and stained the brown wallpaper. Something must have been on these walls, and for a long time too. But not any more. Paintings perhaps. But pictures more likely. Looking at the décor, an old couple must have lived here. Presumably they’ll have had kids. Maybe grandkids too. And hung pictures of them on the wall, bless them. Proudly. You can almost imagine them pointing to them every time a guest came into their place, and saying how it was their son or daughter. I pictured photos of their wedding day, or maybe photos with their kids. The grandkids. First day at school. That kind of thing. And now they had been taken down. And now I’m beginning to get an idea what happened here.

You see, there was more than one reason for leaving your property. Beyond eloping to the countryside and praying that They were allergic to rural air. Others left to meet up with the rest of their family. Parents moved in with their kids, that kinda thing. Consolidated their resources. Ganged up. They bordered up their windows, barricaded their doors and intended to withstand the environment like it was a storm. They would congregate together, tightly, desperately. And then they would die. Because everyone did. Everyone died. But, most of all, groups of people died. Families died. Because more mouths meant you needed more food. And eventually that would catch with you. And then They would catch up with you too. Hence the golden rule. More important than all the others. Stay away from other people. Nothing good ever comes from other people.

That’s what I reckoned happened here. Granparents moving in with the kids, and maybe the grandchildren too. All under one roof. The son, no, the son-in-law. It was his idea. He thought he could be the man. Protect them. He knew DIY. He could fix up cars. Of course he could single-handedly hold back the personification of an unstoppable force. He was the man. And the grandparents, well, they trusted him. Well, he looked after their daughter so well. So they moved in. Plus they’d be with the grandkids, and they loved to see them. And then, sure enough, food runs out, They come in, and the family gets savaged like vultures at a wilderbeest’s carcass.

I dunno why I got so upset, thinking about this. Must be a sore spot I guess. I tried not to think about it. About family. Not a path I want my mind to go down. Family feels a long time ago and a long way away, right now. There’s a mirror in the dining room, a big black-rimmed thing hung up on the wall, about the size a large telly. And I don’t even realise I’m doing it, but I’m looking at myself in it. Staring at the face of a girl who had devoted her life to trying to becoming something that would make her parents proud. An accountant, of all things. Oh, they loved the idea of me being an accountant. A profession. It seemed venerable. Something they could show off, talk to the neighbours about with pride. My dad always said that “robots will wipe out most jobs in the end, but the world will always need accountants”. Truthfully, with accountancy packages these days, that was actually far from true, but I never felt a need to correct him.

The eyes of that girl were different to the ones staring at the mirror now. Or maybe they’re not. I dunno. Maybe I’m projecting. Super-imposing my emotions onto what I can see. But they don’t look the same, I swear they don’t. They look… I’m not sure, like heavier maybe? No, that’s not right. Wearier perhaps. Are these the eyes of a girl who’s seen shit? Who’s done shit? Who’s soul has fallen down a well and won’t ever be able to climb back out again? I don’t care if I’m projecting or not, all I know is that it sure feels like they are.

Looking at the rest of me, I’m reminded that I used to be such a pretty thing. Again, I probably still am. I mean, it’s still the same face, isn’t it? The same wide eyes, same big and dark eyebrows, same slightly-off-centre nose, but off-centre in an endearing and charming way and not a late-era Picasso way. Cheekbones are still there, though the ridges seem to blend in to the background a little more. My jawline, previously sharp enough to cut diamond, seems a little pointed. I must have still been pretty, I just didn’t feel it. I felt tired. Heavy. Heavy with guilt. Heavy with exhaustion. And heavy with food.

I guess that’s the consequence of needing to never feel hungry. Because, before this all happened, I often felt hungry. I would sometimes take a weird pride in being able to soldier on through a day despite being hungry. There’s a point, a point after being hungry where your stomach takes the hint and stops protesting so loudly. And the hunger goes again. That would happen a lot. When I was at work, I would forget I was hungry. I wouldn’t listen to those neurons. To busy scraping away at a never-ending pile of work hoping that one day Sisyphus would get his boulder up that mountain and I would get on top of my work. For a number of reasons, fashion, life, work, I was often hungry. I was thin, and I was thin because I spent most of my time hungry. And now I don’t. Now I can’t. And it’s starting to tell.

I don’t look in the mirror to see the rest of me. Looking into my eyes is hard enough, but looking at my body is too much. I don’t mean that in a shallow way. I’m not arguing that it’s a shame I’m not catwalk ready during this post-apocalypse or whatever this is. It’s just another reminder, a very pointed reminder, of how much I have changed these past four months. How I’m not the person I was. And I don’t want to be reminded of that. I block it out of my mind as I put another fig roll in my mouth.

So I turn around and figure that it’s time to move on. From this property, from this fictional backstory, from the memories and thoughts and shame and guilt. Just move onto the next thing. That was the system. Trust the system. Follow the rules. And just move onto the next thing.

And just as I turned around to leave, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A piece of paper. And I immediately knew that I was, for the first time since… let’s not go there. But, for the first time since then, I was about to break my own rules. Abuse my own system. And not move on. I felt heaviness at the back of my throat and my face tensed as I picked the paper up to read it.

It was a note. But it wasn’t instructions. It wasn’t an if-you-find-this type note. It was the worst type of note in the world. The last type of note you would ever want to come across. I put it down as soon as I realised and began my breathing exercises. And in. And out again. And then in. And then out again. I could feel my face scrunching up. I could feel my bottom lip wavering. I could my heavy, dark eyebrows angling. And I could feel my eyes moistening. And in. And out again.

It was a suicide note.

There was a third reason why buildings were vacant. And that was that the inhabitants were dead. Most of them were killed by Them. They rarely left a trace when they did. No carcass remains, no blood even. Just the cumbersome clumsiness of Their size bashing into walls and knocking down shelving. Sometimes though, people were killed by other people. I know, I know, that all seems a bit Lord of the Flies, but it’s true. First year at university, we learnt about Thomas Hobbes in a module about business management. Apparently, Thomas Hobbes argued that, in the state of nature, a world without government, that would lead the life of a man to be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short”. I remember writing up that passage of his Leviathan, figuring a direct quote would look good in my essay. And “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short” seems to describe life after Them pretty well. Turns out, maybe he was right after all.

So most of them were killed by Them, some of them were killed us. And occasionally, they were killed by themselves. They couldn’t stand the horror of it all. They felt suffocated by this smog of darkness that They seemed to summon in all of us. Others couldn’t stand the fear. It sounds strange, given that what they feared was death, but they hated that dread so much that they decided to opt out early. And the worst thing of all was that it was a good thing. I remember not wanting to feel grateful, but deep down feeling grateful. Because it was one less mouth to feed. One less person for resources to be allocated to. It seemed so cold when put into words, I mean this isn’t accounting. And yet, I remember trying to repress feelings of relief that my survival chances were marginally increased because of their entire universes being taken.

The note was short. And heartfelt. It was all apologies and gratitude. Sorry for leaving, but so grateful for the time that they had. Instructions to look after the grandchildren “no matter what”, so I guess I was right about that. And “no matter what” felt loaded. Like they were saying, if you need one less mouth to feed, make it your own. And then the explanation of why. Because they didn’t want one to die and one to be left behind. They were a married couple it seems, and they wanted to go together. Not what I guessed at all. And yet, I got it. I understood that. Seeing a family member die like that is the sort of thing that stains your insides and scars the tissue on the underside of your brain. It’s a cancer metastasising in your soul. Watching someone you love die is a pain far worse than death. That’s why you would always give anything to swap places. Or, at least most people do.

And as painful as that is to read, worse still is the hand prints in the corner of the paper. And the tears that blotched the ink that had written. The poor person writing it, pouring the soul out onto this scratty piece of paper, crying as they did. Or not. Or wait. Hang on. What if those tears were from the person who had read it? The person it was intended for? I mean, it would explain why all the paintings had been taken down. The son had come back, seen the note, cried, and then taken the photos as mementos. Maybe the pictures on the wall were family photos, of them all together and he took them down to remind him of his parents. Took them with him. After their suicide. God, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Fuck, the smell. Those gasping fumes that I blamed on Them. Shit, shit, shit. It wasn’t Them at all. It was them. Those wafts of dead air, maggoted and festering, weren’t just the acrid aromas of Them, but the long deceased grandparents who had hunkered down here and couldn’t bear the worst of it happening in a world that’s just toppled over into shit and asked us to wade in it forevermore. I wonder if the son realised that too. I wonder if he walked up the stairs in horror and trepidation like I am, his stomach curdling at the smell and his chest braying at the trauma like mine is. He would have known straight away which room to enter. I just had to guess from the smell. This way. The air smells more foul here. A person always trusts their nose.

Their bedroom door creaks open and I look in, and the rancid fumes hit me like a fireball as I open the door. And my eyes immediately spy, silhouetted in the sharp mid-afternoon light, the kind of image that you never shake. Nooses. Two nooses gently swaying in the light breeze of an opened window. And below them, a collapsed pile of black porridge hanging onto the skeletal remains of an old couple who couldn’t cope with the darkness outside.

I closed the door immediately. And suddenly my chest felt suffocated, and oxygen felt sparse. It felt like their just wasn’t a wide enough airway down my throat. My lungs expanding and contracting heavily and often as I wheeze for a breath I cannot seem to catch. My eyes are slaloming in their socket, oiled up and unable to grip. No. You know the drill Alisha. Remember your breathing exercises. Focus on your breathing. Control your breathing. And in and out and in and out. And slow it down. And in. And hold it. And out. Deep breaths. Not shallow and fast. And in. And out. There we go. Come on. And in. And out.

I walk down, my hand still trembling as it rests on the bannister. And in. And out. And then I sit back down at the bottom of the stairs and just cry. Crying with the image scratched into my brain of what were once people so terrified of the world that they became that. So terrified of the world that they let their son see that they’d become that. Sometimes everything would just get too much. In a previous life, before the sky fall and the locusts came or whatever this bizarre world has now become, this would be the kind of trauma that would need a lifetime of therapy. But in this helter-skelter hellscape, it’s just a Tuesday. Just another day, just another opportunity to have your innards yanked from beneath you. An experience so near-death that I could smell the grim reaper’s breath, followed by walking in on a group suicide. I’m surprised I’m not inured to it, not numb to it. But each body blow bruises like the previous, just another shade of people heaped upon the last.

I drag myself back into that dining room. Back in front of that mirror. I want to see the bruises. I want to see cost of this life. Cos it hurts like hell but one day I worry that it won’t. That I will finally numb to the blades of this new world. I stand as tall as I can in front of the mirror, to get as much of me as I can muster in the reflection. This mirror, it’s my Dorian Gray’s Portrait. It carries my sin for me. It carries all the ugliness. Not just in the eyes, incandescent with pain. But all of me. A girl who hasn’t been hungry in four months.

I used to be thin. I play it down with false modesty. I pretended I didn’t try to be thin. But I did. I tried so hard. Not through exercise, nothing as flashy as that. I wanted it to seem accidental. Beautiful and attractive, with a figure to die for? Moi? So I just never ate, and pretended I never wanted to. I lied about it so easily, I started believing it. I’d tell people I was “just not a big eater” and believe it. It was, for so long, my darkest secret. Now, I realise it doesn’t even qualify as dark, but for so long I lied to myself and others and swore blind I couldn’t eat another thing when my stomach was convulsing in hunger.

People would always tell me I was pretty. It was always in a “I think you need to hear this” way. Like it was preceded by a silent ‘actually’. A low-key pretty, always dressed down so never to be beautiful. People told me I was pretty because they thought it needed saying. Because it wasn’t obvious. In the same way that, at some point, if something is universally underrated, is it still underrated? It had become obvious that I was pretty, but not in an obvious way.

Maybe it was a little less obvious now. I was 5ft4 and 103lbs, now I’m still 5ft4, but I’m 129lbs. The clothes I wear were bought for a girl that could get lost in childrenswear, but now I can feel the tightness of my hoodie across my chest and on my arms, and see the shortness of the fabric that leads to my stomach slipping out so slightly beneath. Material taken up by a food baby that never seems to come to term, but merely incubates further instead. My upper body just feels… tarnished I guess. Is that the word for it? Blemished? Damaged? Scarred? Yeah, scarred. This is how I carry my scars. I can’t see lower down on me in the mirror, but my thighs skim the other now too. Another casualty in this battle for survival. And there could be real horror to the realisation that this is never going to end. That I will never be able to diet this away and shift them pounds. That getting hungrier quicker means eating more means getting bigger means getting hungrier quicker means eating more and so on and so on on this nightmarish carousel. This upward spiral. But the weight doesn’t look like horror, it just looks like consequence to me. It bears the brunt of it so I don’t have to. That’s how it has to be. It’s my Dorian Gray’s portrait. It’s my penance. It’s the price for survival.

I guess, I want survival to hurt. It should hurt, shouldn’t it? I shouldn’t get away with what I did, should I? I deserve to be haunted by it through crippling pain. I deserve every concoction of agony and strife that life can hurl at me. But, short of that, I guess weight gain will do. I’m still not fat. In another life, in another world, I’m an accountant who’s put on a few but still knows how to work it. My hair’s been straightened, no curled actually, that looks better, and my make-up’s been applied. My skirt’s long enough to be professional and short enough to be alluring. And I work it. And I look good. But this isn’t that world, and looking good requires me to give one more fuck than I have in my locker. My hair’s up in a messy bun, and my clothes haven’t fitted for the past 15lbs. It’s survival. And that’s all anything is now.

I turn to leave the place, my breath restored and my pack of fig rolls nearly empty. I put the last two in my mouth and think only of the time it buys me. I chew and even try to enjoy the flavour a little. And then it’s on to the next house, with its story inside. With its tragedy written in the décor and on the walls. And then the next one. Scavenging for food like a raccoon in a bin. Because this is life now. High in calories, low in morale and the only thing worse than it is the absence of it.

Haha! Just as I’m about to leave, stashed behind the radiator, obscured by a door that’s clinging on to its hinges as desperately as I’m clinging on to life, is a can of baked beans. A miniature jackpot, that will actually fill for a reasonable period of time. I guess I was right about that guilty thought I had earlier. I’m glad that old couple killed themselves. Fewer mouths to feed, more for the rest of us. More for me. And I’ll let my body pay the toll on that guilty thought. This can of beans should see me to tomorrow hopefully, and I can start this whole fig roll rigmarole again.

[swahilimonkfish]

Chapter 3 – The Unexpected Kills

 

 

4 months earlier

 

 

“What do you mean, you are not staying with your family, young man?” Alisha’s mother yelled at her eldest son, Nish. Alisha was packing the clothes that her mum was ironing while the discussion was being had.

“I’m staying with Theresa and her family” he explained, ready to stand his ground.

“And what happens if Theresa dumps you. Or cheats on you. But family is permanent. Family first, that’s the family golden rule. A white girl like her, she’s probably slept around loads” Alisha’s mum complained, causing Alisha to giggle.

“Oh my god, that’s so racist mum. I like her, okay? Okay, how about you trust me. I’m 25 years old, I think I can make my own decision. You were married with kids at my age, let me be a grown up” Alisha’s brother hit back, his temper rising.

“Yes, but that was before aliens or demons or… whatever they are, started eating people. It’s not just Africa now, it’s spreading. It’s in Europe now. I heard on the news its because of pesticides. And Britain uses loads of pesticides. And chlorinated chicken. I bet that’s what caused. Or fracking. Either way, it’s dangerous” the mum ranted whilst ironing, and Alisha struggled to repress a smile. “You should be like Alisha. She always follows the golden rule. Never putting some hot stuff ahead of her family”.

“Oh, you don’t think those girls Alisha brings over are just friends do you?” Her brother teased, getting a middle finger from Alisha for his troubles. “Anyway, my decision is final. I’m breaking your ‘golden rule’ and doing what I think is right. It might not be the safest call, but it’s the right one”.

Alisha’s brother flounced at with annoyance.

“Oh, I’m proud of that boy. He’s become a man. He’ll be fine. You need to be more like him, Alisha. And maybe socialise a bit more. Get yourself a good strong man, a doctor maybe. Stop hiding away and actually meet people” Alisha’s mum chastised.

“Yeah, will do. I might just wait until after the whole end of the world has happened first” Alisha teased back.

“Oh please. End of the world(!) The world’s been spinning this long and been fine. And if things have been fine so far, why do you think they’d go wrong now?”

 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

 

Steady. Keep things steady. It’s like my breathing. Just got to keep things steady.

 

Broomhall had turned out to be fruitful for food. A number of the properties had, for one reason or another although most unknown to me, contained things that could be eaten. Between the mouldy perishables, overgrown in green and white, would be tins of food, often with ring-pulls but others demanding my steadfast tin-opener. Other items took a bit more ingenuity. Sachets of food that required hot water, meant I had to use one of the fireplaces of the older properties to boil a pot. Like I am some goddamn Victorian. I would wait til it was dark, so the plumes from the stone-brick chimneys were disguised in the inky skies, and eat pot noodles or porridge or hot chocolate.

So, all in all, the week had fed me well. And there was a steady lolling rickshaw rhythm to it as I worked my way across the street from property to property. Methodical and steady, and without any of the dramas from that day the week before. It didn’t feel like safety and it didn’t feel like security, but, for the first time since it happened, it didn’t feel like being trapped in a spin-cycle of perpetual horror. It feel like the best that I can hope for.

And I worked hard to savour it. To rest on the comfortable furniture to people long gone. To wash myself and get rid of that second skin of grime that circumstance and a lack of running water had inflicted upon me. To feel human again. Just a little. Or, at least, how I remember being a human used to feel. But it’s been a while now. And I do all this because that’s the system. They’re my rules. Enjoy any moment you can, because there’s always a downturn just around the corner. If things have been fine, you’re overdue something going wrong.

And the downturn is now. I was about to break into one of the properties across the road, you see, when I noticed the door was already open. Hinges fractured, wooden frame splintered. And it wasn’t open yesterday. Someone, or something, has been here and it’s been here recently.

I am not waiting to find out. Avoid people. The golden rule is avoid people. People are dangerous. They are unknown variables. And they bring about death. At best, they are another mouth to feed. And the worst is so much worse. So, let’s stick to the rules Alisha. Just walk away. Just follow your rules, stay safe and walk away. Back out and retreat. I march back across the street, hurriedly, exerting more energy than I would normally. My hairs are standing up on their ends and my eyes are rushing around looking for movement. The property to the… I think it’s the East… that one looks like it’s been occupied too. Curtains opened that were closed before. You learn to spot these changes. But the one to its West doesn’t. That one looks exactly the same. They’re moving East to West then. Okay. So I just need to stay away and move East.

I wait behind some rickety old fence and catch my breath, with my back to the property that I think houses them. Breathing in and out, steadying myself. Where I’m sitting is wet from the damp grass caused by the on-off showers we’ve been having recently. I try not to think about these things. I need to focus. I need to focus on what I know. I think I know where they are. I think it must be a person, or people. And I know that I need to get past them without their noticing. I reach into my rucksack and grab a dried fruit bar. I don’t want to get hungry here. I might be using up energy in a bit.

And wait. And calm. And listen. Listen and see if I can hear anything. Any clue. Any indication. Do they know to be quiet? Do they know that there’s someone else around here? And do they care? I listen for anything. The rattle of tins, the closing of doors, anything.

I can hear birdsong. Birds oblivious to the smog of death that we’re all breathing in down here. Birds chirruping away as if it was just another day of the week, on the back of so many other days of the week. I can hear wind, thrashing through trees. It’s been picking up recently, the past few days. The weather feels close, like there’s kinetic charge in the air. Like the gloomy clouds ahead are going to break into rainfall again. I can hear all the world around me, but I can’t hear them. Nor Them.

And I don’t like that suspicious quiet. My mind fills the gaps that the quiet provides. No, I need to move. Move around them and behind them, and get away from the danger. There was a jitty back on the cul-de-sac that I was on, that looked like it cut through and behind them. I could try there, I could try that. Out of the way of danger. As per the golden rules. As per the system. A system that has never let me down.

It’s in these moments that you notice how much your body has changed over time. Maybe you do when things are calm too, but it doesn’t worry you like it does now. Maybe, when your reclining in some stranger’s vacated bed, eating tinned peaches in bed, with your arm resting on dough that once was granite, you notice it but don’t care because all is well. But, when shit gets real and you’re hunched up and preparing to move fast and low, every addition to your person feels like an inconvenience that you wish you had avoided.

Still, no time for a sef-pity, I have to get moving. Hunched down beneath the eye line of this fence, I run to its parallel until I feel like I am safely out of their eyeline. Not pausing for breath, I carry on crouched and moving fast towards the jitty entrance, hoping to sneak down there so the pressure fades. Spots of rain start to fall from the foreboding clouds, whipped up by the wind and spraying my face as my breath hammers through exertion. I can feel the water dripping off my eyebrows, running down my fringe and showering my face. I can feel it on the small of my back too, my ridden-up tracksuit top, trusty and faithful but much too small now, providing a landing strip of back to hit. It embarrasses me, water trickling down the builder’s bum I bear, but I keep moving forwards. Fear trumps all other considerations, always. And I was afraid.

And I get there, to a dilapidated wooden style that marks the entrance of an alleyway that runs sandwiched between the properties and the gardens that they had behind them. The path beyond it is overgrown, with brambles sprouting obtrusively from the side. As soon as I climb over the style, I am confronted by them, scratching my hands and getting in my hair. I waft them away, only for them to rehook onto the arm I used to bat them aside. Fucking things. Scrambling through to where I hoped they would thin, I suddenly stop.

Standing at the other end of this cut-through, camouflaged in the greens and browns of the thicket, is one of Them. In the flesh. If, indeed, that was flesh that gave them Their sickly green. I freeze, staring at one for the first time since I found myself in the stomach of one of Them. Shit. Oh God, I never wanted to see another one of Them ever again. All the feelings come flooding back, memories that feel so visceral that you can smell, hear and taste them. I remember the drop in temperature as They opened up to swallow me. I remember the wet on the floor that Their sludgy bodies brought in. I remember the fear. The hyperventilating fear as the world runs away from you and you are left in the darkness.

No. No, stop it. Focus. Get your head in gear. Concentrate. You’re not hungry, remember. You’re not hungry, so there is no danger from it. I grab my rucksack and eat a fruesli bar, and then a second. To take no chances. I shouldn’t. It’s a waste of resources. I won’t be hungry for another couple of hours, even with the running. It’s not part of the system. It’s against my rules. It’s against the maths. But, staring at it, so still it might as well have been a rock, I felt I had no chance. I didn’t dare do otherwise. I pushed a third bar into my already full stomach just for reassurance.

Now, I need to get around it. It fills up most of the path, it’s wide and the path’s narrow, but there is room to its right that I should be able to squeeze by. The thought scares me though. These things are spring-loaded. They’re venus fly-traps. One touch, one gentle brush of its unnatural flesh and that’s the last the world will ever see of you. But I can fit. I can fit in the gap. Sure, I’m not as narrow as I used to be, but I can fit. I haven’t grown that much. Have I?

I try to walk up to it, but my legs don’t respond. It’s like their running off a different system, and any instruction I type in isn’t affecting them. It’s fear. I can’t walk up to Them. No amount of breathing exercises, no amount of self-help, nothing can do it. My legs just won’t respond. I don’t want them to respond. I look at it, not even pulsing with the intake of breath but rather just lying there entirely dormant as if in stasis, and I just want to get away. I just want it to stop. I just want to find a corner, curl up in it and cry until forever. Is this what paralysing fear feels like? Is this what petrified means?

I just stand there, fully alert like a meerkat popping its head up but never moving. Just watching this static beast do nothing. I’m scared that even walking away will wake it, even though I know it only responds to hunger and touch. So I just stand there. Eyes fixed, hooked on like claws, on it as the weather worsens. The rain picks up and is now tumbling down to Earth, hitting my skin like daggers. Everything is wet, my hair soaked through, my clothes waterlogged, my vision obscured by the cascading waterfall over my eyebrows. It hurts. It’s raining so hard now that it physically hurts. And yet I just stand there.

Hang on. Did it move? I squint where I thought I saw movement. Maybe it was the rustling of the throughfare of wind tunnelling down the jitty. But, I could have sworn that this mass was parallel with one of the fence posts, and now it looks ever so slightly further forward. Maybe it’s an optical illusion. Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks. It is. It must be. Because it isn’t doing anything. Maybe I should eat a fourth bar, just in case.

I burrow into my rucksack and grab more. It’s a good job that I’m fairly well stocked at the minute. Because I’m getting through food fast here. I worry my nervous energy, the whirring in my stomach is burning food faster than it should. I should be well up on calories needed, carbs needed, energy needed. But what if I’m burning too fast. Burning with anxiety. Burning with fear. I blitz through the bar recklessly fast, my mind telling me lies now about my situation.

I look up again and I swear, I swear that this Them is closer. I measured it against that post and it was level, maybe a bit further, but now it’s a post closer still. There’s about 80 metres or so between me and Them, and I am telling you that it is moving. It can’t be. It can’t be. I’ve eaten four bars. If anything, I’ve eaten too much. I keep trying to do the maths, going through the numbers in my head. But the numbers matter for nought, if They move then They move. And it is closer, I am sure of it.

And then I see it, slowly pull itself, and it is slowly, towards me. It’s barely movement, but the rock of putrid green is softening, flexing, moving. No, no, no, this is wrong. How many more bars in my bag? 6? A couple of tins too. This should have been enough to last me all day. But it doesn’t seem to be working. I should never have come this way. I should never have been here. My stupid golden rule, stupid fucking golden rule telling me to avoid humans at all costs. Well here’s the cost. They are the cost. I’m so fucking stupid. I should have just… I dunno, done something, something other than this. Because this is bad.

And They are limbering up now, each movement more pronounced, more deliberate. It’s closer to me now. How much? Another metre? Maybe two. I need to grab another bar. I eat it, but my eyes are fixed on Them this time. Not taking my eyes off it for a second. Watching it drag itself through the wind and rain in slow motion, eking out enough energy to find some semblance of momentum. Every movement is labouring, every shift in weight feels heavy, but it is coming for me. Of that, there is no doubt.

I start to edge backwards, keeping my eyes on it still. My thoughts, illogical thoughts, move to running. Running away from it. Even though running is what uses up energy, even though running signs my death warrant. But eating doesn’t seem to be working. I should have digested those bars by now. They shouldn’t be coming towards me. And yet They are. I don’t know what to do, I feel powerless.

And then it happens. The sounds that sends shivers down my spine. The sound that splinters through the air around it. A gasping trill shriek from Them to say food’s up. It’s the sound you wake up to after a nightmare. It’s a sound so deeply carved into your brain, you sometimes hear it when it’s not there. But there is no mistaking it this time, I watch the amorphous creature shift its skin like tectonic plates to provide an orifice from which to scream its invitation to eat me. I need to eat another bar. There’s no two ways about this. It is eat or be eaten.

I eat two more bars, these ones chocolate so hopefully the sugar will hit me sooner, fill me sooner. I don’t savour the taste, the way the thick layer of chocolate snaps and the way the internal wafer crumples. No, it is just a process. A horrified process to get Them off my back. To do anything to zap speed from a monster that seems to be gathering it. Eating recklessly quickly, walking backwards and eyes hooked onto Them, I bump into the style I mounted to enter this alleyway. With panic, I climb over it, taking great care not to drop anything, not to waste any calories. I can’t afford that. It might be the death of me.

60 metres from me now, and that’s despite my retreat. And another one is behind it, the same identikit shade of shapeless monstrosity pulling its immensity towards me.

55 metres, and I’ve backed out into the street. I need something else, the bars haven’t worked.

50 metres and I pull out one more bar. If this doesn’t work, if this doesn’t stop them, then I’m just going to have to resign myself to death.

45 metres now and I’m walking back faster and faster.

40 metres, now 35 metres, now 30, it’s really gathering speed as it charges towards me.

25 metres and I’m pushing the bar into my mouth and pleading at the sky, for some idling god to get its finger out of its arse and intervene. I don’t want to fucking die, you hear me. I’ve cost too much for it to be worth nothing.

20 metres, 15 metres and the bar isn’t working. And I’m tempted to run. But what’s the point?

10 metres and I might as well just stand here and accept my fate. I’ve played all my cards and I’ve lost so there’s nothing left for it.

5 metres and I wonder if I’ll see my parents again. I was never religious like them. I’m Hindi, but I never practice. Never believed it. My parents always blamed my Westernised upbringing but really it’s not that at all. I just never felt anything other than alone in this world. And, now I’m going to die alone.

4 metres, 3 metres, 2 metres and I close my eyes and hold my breath. 1 metre? 0 metres? 0 metres? 0 metres? I should be eaten by now. I open my eyes to see what’s going on, and why I’m still alive. I should be dead. Again. I should be dead all over again. And yet… I’m not. And yet, they’re walking past me?

The tarmac road even seems to strain under Their strides, but each stride, or canter since they seem to be quadrupedal, is taking Them past me. Why? I heard it scream. I saw it come towards me. Is this a glitch? Is this something else entirely? Or someone else entirely?

“Alright mate, you don’t happen to have a bite to eat, do you? Only, the thing is, I’m apparently peckish, and so are the Celadons”

I look around and I realise I’m standing in front of the property I suspected of being populated. I look around and see a woman standing in the window of that property as They grind out progress towards it. I look around and the woman is calling out to me. I point my finger towards myself, in the downpouring conditions, as if to ask whether it was me that she was talking to.

“Yeah, I’m fucking talking to you, you tosspot. Who else did you think I was… never mind… look, could you just through me a bar of something, you seem to have plenty. Just a bar, that’s all I need. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. But I can’t do that if I’m dead, which might be happening sooner than I’d like”

They were at the property now, but instead of climbing up the outside like that one did with me, They just barge through the front door to look for some stairs while this weird woman leans out of the front bedroom window. At the pace that they were travelling at now, fully stirred into motion and on the march, she didn't have long left. A minute? Maybe less?

I could so as she asks. I could throw her a bar. After all, I have plenty. I could throw her a bar and save her life. But the golden rule is to avoid people. Avoid people no matter the cost. And this system has kept me alive for this long. Trust the system, trust the rule. Stay safe. I can’t break it, not now. Who knows what might happen? She might kill me, for my stash of food. I don’t know what people are like, now the world has fallen, but I doubt they’re all friendly benevolent so-and-sos. Or, at the very least, it’s a waste of food. A waste of resources. Like with those grandparents who committed suicide. Their death saved my life. See, people are a burden. No, Alisha, stick to the plan and stay safe.

“Oh, come on mate. Please. I’ll do fucking anything. Eat you out, anything. Whatever you want, just please I really don’t want to fucking die in Sheffield. No offence, but I’d rather die anywhere than this dump” she pleaded. And I really wished she wouldn’t. It makes it so much more difficult.

I know. I’ll turn my back. Like last time. Out of sight, out of mind. I'll turn my back to her as They swallow her whole and wipe her from existence. I'll ignore the screams and the anguish, the rising pitch of panic as she realises that this is the end. I'll turn my back and soon it will all be back to normal. Soon I'll be safe again. Except I can’t. Not again. Not like I did with my mum. I promised myself I would never do that again. I wouldn't bbe responsible for someone's death again. I mean, wasn’t that another rule? And if that’s a rule too, maybe I should follow that one instead.

Oh fuck it. You know what, I’m going to do it. I’m going to break my own rules. The golden rule. The one thing, above all else, I know to not do. And I’m going to do it anyway. The one thing that has guided me this far, kept me safe for this long, when so many people have fallen by the wayside. And I’m going to disregard it. This is probably the most stupid decision I’m ever going to make.

I go into my bag, and fish out a bar. Nuts and fruits and sugar, it should fill her quickly.

“Aww, nice one mate. I knew you were good one. Come on, throw it up here. You can do it” she said, arms outstretched and ready to catch.

I don’t appreciate the condescending pep talk, but I throw it up anyway. I was never any good at sports but I had faith I’d be able to throw it to her. But I had to do it quickly. They were upstairs now and homing in on her. I could see their green silhouette in the background. Threw the hoarse wind and harsh rain, I could see them drawing closer, what 20 seconds from her. I had to throw it up there first time and hope it was good enough for her to catch, hope it was soon enough for her to eat it, hope it was filling enough to put Them of Their lunch. That sounded like a lot of hope.

Before I do, do you know the story about that Amazon driver from Leicester? No? Well, I'll tell you. Okay, basically, typical day, typical Amazon driver. He has a parcel for a property. As normal. Knocks on the door to deliver it. As normal. Only, thing is, nobody's there. Ugh. Delivery people, they hate this. If a delivery guy comes to your door, just answer the fucking thing. It's the least they deserve. Well, no answer, and it was too big to fit through the letterbox. So what did he do? Well, there's a window open upstairs. Now, it's not open much. Honestly, not open much further wide than the size of the box. But the Amazon driver thinks 'well, what else shall I do'. And he has a go. He throws it. Now, odds are he fails, it hits the frame of the window, bouncing back down and probably breaks the contents contained therein. However, the reason I know this story was because, despite all odds, despite him not being a pitcher for the New York Yankees or whatever, I don't like US sports, he managed it. Somehow, the box went through the window at the right angle to land comfortably on the bed the other side. It was ridiculous. It made the news. And that's where my brother saw it, and proceeded to tell us all about the amazing Amazon delivery guy in painstaking detail. He thought it was cool. Dad thought it was bad practice. Mum thought it was funny. And I... I'm just glad that sometimes good things happen. A silly thing, yes, but it was a good thing too. An impossible throw that came off

I tried to focus on where I was throwing it, and, like a frisbee, threw it up towards her. Throwing it like a frisbee was a terrible idea, and yet somehow it drifted towards her. She reached out, through the window and she caught it first time. Not exactly an impossible throw, but it came off. She shoved it in her mouth hurriedly as they bounded towards her. It was just a question of whether the food would hit her stomach faster that They would. They were almost on top of her now, and the nearest was doing what it did to me. It was opening it's entire stomach or mouth or whatever it was, like a hinge, impossibly wide and ready to consume her. And, within seconds, they stopped. It wasn't drowning her out, but it was right in her face and ready to digest her when it stopped cold in its tracks.

“Wow, cheers mate. You’ve just gone and bloody saved my life. Haha! I'm fucking alive. I live to see another bloody day! Take that Sheffield! I swear to God I won't die here, for as long as I live" the woman said, celebrating with a macho fist pump, and then pointing her finger at the city she was insulting. Incidentally, my home town. She then turned back to me. "Hey. You. Shy girl. Just wondering... cos I've had a right shit couple of weeks so I'd really like to know... was it the offer to eat you out that swayed you to save me? Cos... I’m gay if you are?” she said, and I froze again. Out of a very very different kind of fear.

 

[xandercroft]

Didn't expect the ending proposition!

 

[swahilimonkfish]

17 hours ago, xandercroft said:

Didn't expect the ending proposition!

 

Yeah, I've established the default state, now I'm introducing a character to upset the apple-cart, and she's the polar opposite in terms of character