The Last Plague Read online

  Something was following Florence and the men, keeping its distance and hiding from them as it moved closer. A pale tumultuous form flitting between trees and patches of grassland like it was carried on the wind. It moved quickly. Very quickly.

  “Oh fuck, what is that?” said Joel.

  Frank ran to the car.

  * * *

  They reached the village minutes later. Frank stopped the car and they got out. A baseball bat, speckled with blood, had rolled to a stop by the kerb.

  There was a soft gurgling sound from down the street.

  “We were too late,” said Frank.

  They walked around the corner.

  “Oh my God,” said Joel. He put a hand to his face and touched his mouth.

  The creature was a travesty of sagging, corpse-white skin and wheezing breath. It held the fundamental shape of a human being, but its flesh and muscle was twisted and wrinkled. Tumours bulged under its skin, expanding and retracting as it breathed through a clenching ruby-lipped mouth. It was hunched over, withered vestigial arms dangling from its body, as it steadily absorbed the man in the balaclava.

  The man’s arms moved in spasms. His eyes opened. His mouth opened but nothing came out. No words, just incoherent fear and terror.

  “Fuck,” said Magnus.

  As they watched, the monster puffed out and expanded like a creeping growth, losing its human shape to a blubbery mass of mottled flesh that enveloped the man slowly, as if the creature were savouring the absorption of its prey. It was like a giant unshelled mollusc. Dozens of small yellow eyes opened on the creature’s body. Prickly tendrils grew from its flanks; some of them sensed Frank and the others, and their slick tips tasted the air like awful tongues.

  The man vanished beneath the monster. His muffled cries could be heard from underneath the creature’s pulsing flesh.

  The creature seemed to swell and enlarge even more until it was the size of a large car. The man screamed once as the creature’s mass made several violent shudders, and there was a sucking, scouring sound. Slopping wetness, like a pig slurping from a bucket.

  Ralph aimed the flare gun at the pulsing thing. His arm was steady. He didn’t fire. He lowered the gun and shook his head. No need in wasting a flare.

  He watched in awe, with something like admiration.

  The creature made a moaning, pleasurable sound. Ralph realised he was fascinated by the creature…and the other creatures newly-born to the land. He liked to watch nature documentaries, and was fascinated by nature’s cruelty; lions hunting gazelles and zebras; crocodiles lunging out of rivers to drag wildebeest into the water; eagles snatching monkeys from tree branches and carrying them off to their nests for their young. The dance between predator and prey.

  “Amazing,” he said.

  The creature looked at Ralph with its many yellow eyes. Then it looked at the flare gun in his hand. It feared neither.

  He respected them, the infected; the monsters, the abominations. They held no pretensions. They didn’t hide anything. No delusions about what they were, unlike people. They were honest and they were truthful. Honest in their intentions to ingest or infect you. They were what they were, and nothing else. No lies, dishonesty, betrayal, hatred or ignorance.

  No prejudice.

  No evil.

  No humanity.

  The creature’s protean mass began to diminish, deflating itself until it returned to its original size. The pulsing stopped, its eyes closed and its tendrils lowered to become slack and idle upon its tumorous mass.

  It had fed well, and now it would sleep.

  There was a cry of pain from beyond the creature.

  “Florence,” said Frank.

  They left the creature to its gluttonous slumber and staggered down the street.

  * * *

  They found Florence standing over Bertram’s corpse slumped against a wall. Bertram’s face was raw and wet, mutilated by a sharp edge. His right eye had been cut away. His throat had been slashed. His chest was a network of red wounds.

  Florence turned to the men. She was holding Bertram’s machete. The blade dripped red into a pool by her feet. Blood on her face and her arms. She was shaking, but seemed unhurt.

  Frank’s eyes met with hers. They were shadowed with dull patches and appeared too large for her small face.

  “He tried to take me away,” said Florence. “He tried to touch me, so I took his knife and I…”

  “It’s okay. Everything’s alright.” Frank knelt beside her, looked into her face. He forced a smile, relief and horror flooding through him. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

  She shook her head. She radiated heat.

  “Did they do anything to you? Anything bad?”

  She knew what he meant. Again, she shook her head.

  Frank took the machete from her and dropped it on the ground. Behind him, the others were staring at Florence, their mouths open. They said nothing.

  “You came back for me,” she said.

  “I would never leave you.”

  Florence began to cry, and she wrapped her arms around Frank’s neck and hugged him, staining him with Bertram’s blood.

  He didn’t care. He couldn’t stop smiling.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  They kept to the back roads. Rain gathered in the heavy skies. The wind had picked up. Ralph stared out the window at a lone figure in the fields they passed. It was a naked man, his hands clasped over his chest like he was uttering a plea upon the sodden earth. The man’s stomach was distended and rippling; suddenly, it split into a vertical slavering mouth lined with human teeth.

  The man fell to his knees.

  Ralph looked away.

  The girl was sitting between Ralph and Frank on the backseat. She was resting her head on Frank’s chest; he had his arm around her. He had cleaned her face of Bertram’s blood.

  Ralph had never been good with kids; they were just more annoying versions of adults. He could tolerate them, but barely.

  Florence had clung to Frank ever since they’d left Loxwood. She had eyed Ralph, Magnus and Joel with suspicion, but Frank had convinced her that they were the good guys, not bad men like those who had taken her. Frank had told her that they were going to look after her and keep her safe from the monsters.

  Ralph remembered the girl standing over the man she had killed. He wasn’t shocked anymore. He admired her. It required strength of will to take a life.

  Frank caught Ralph’s eye and nodded. Ralph could tell that Frank cared deeply for the girl. They shared something. A bond. The girl’s resemblance to Frank’s daughter Emily was uncanny. Frank hadn’t mentioned that detail before, and because Florence and Emily were so similar, Ralph was concerned about how his friend was reacting to her presence. He had seen the change in Frank even before they had found Florence in Loxwood.

  Emily had died two years ago. They had all mourned her. A child’s funeral was possibly the most heart-breaking thing in the world. Ralph had watched Frank and Catherine grieve and suffer, and eventually heal, but not fully, never fully. But they had recovered.

  Ralph looked at Frank.

  Frank was smiling.

  * * *

  Roads strewn with wrecks and human remains. A milk tanker was resting on its side across the width of one road. Milk had leaked to create a congealed white mud around the stricken vehicle. They had to reverse and take a side road that was no more than a muddy lane littered with broken tree branches and potholes.

  A house was burning and there were people standing around it, staring at the flames.

  The sky turned black for a few hours and when it rained it was like something unworldly. Something that could have been magnificent in a different time.

  They passed lone travellers hitchhiking. People packed into cars, just like they were. Riders on motorbikes and bicycles.

  They passed Haslemere, Hindhead, and Liphook. Dead places.

  Magnus wanted to forget what he witnessed there. A dark mass birthed inside him a
nd festered. It stayed there like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He wanted to forget a lot of things. He wanted to go home.

  When he saw a dead child face down by the road, he felt like crying. He kept his hands gripped onto the steering wheel so he couldn’t see how badly they were shaking.

  Great flocks of the infected stained the land, hunting the refugees. Monsters and men. Dead livestock littered the fields. Bodies of men, women and children by the roadside.

  They passed a crashed Boeing airliner in a field of rapeseed. A torn fuselage among the garish yellow. Scattered wreckage. Rows of seats with their occupants still seated in them. Handbags and shoes. Spilled suitcases. Discarded clothes fluttering on fences and hanging on tree branches. Sheets of paper and Styrofoam cups drifted in the wind. More bodies pulverised and shredded; some had come to rest hundreds of yards from the airliner. A severed human head was on the road. The infected picked through the remains, scavenging carrion.

  “My God,” said Joel.

  Magnus was speechless.

  “Don’t look,” Frank told Florence.

  She asked, “Are we nearly in Bordon?”

  “Yes. Almost there.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Magnus stopped the car at the outskirts of Bordon. A red moped once used for pizza delivery was lying by the kerb.

  Frank turned to Florence. “Where do your auntie and uncle live? Do you know where their house is?”

  The girl put her hand to her mouth, concentrated on the floor. “It’s near the church, I think. It’s a dead-end where they live.”

  “A dead-end?” asked Frank.

  “A cul-de-sac,” said Ralph.

  Florence looked at Ralph, her face creasing. “Cul-de-sac,” she said slowly.

  Frank said, “Do you know what road they live on? What it’s called?”

  She shook her head. “Their house has a wall at the bottom of their front garden. On the gate is a sign that says ‘Beware of the dog’…but they haven’t got a dog.”

  Ralph scratched his mouth. “Well, that narrows it down.”

  “We’ll find them, Florence,” Frank said.

  Ralph looked at Frank and shook his head.

  “I hope they’re okay,” said Florence. “You don’t think they’re dead, do you?”

  “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  Ralph was sure that Florence’s aunt and uncle were either dead or infected.

  Frank smiled at Florence. “It’ll all be okay. Just you wait and see.”

  * * *

  The car entered the cul-de-sac. A crescent of eight houses in a row. Cars parked on driveways; other driveways were empty. There were dried patches of dark fluid on the pavement. A woman’s high-heeled shoe on the road. Houses with dark windows. Closed front doors.

  Magnus pulled up outside the house.

  “Is that it?” Frank asked Florence. “Is that the house?”

  A ‘BEWARE OF THE DOG’ sign was on the gate. There was a wooden bird-bath, leaning to one side, crusted with seeds and droppings.

  Florence nodded.

  The house was silent and still. The curtains were closed. It looked abandoned. But appearances can be deceiving, thought Ralph.

  “Let’s go then,” said Frank. “Florence, you stay here with Magnus and Joel, okay?”

  “But I want to see my aunt and uncle…”

  “You will, but I need to check it first.”

  “Is it safe for us to wait here?” Magnus asked.

  Frank said, “If you get any trouble, beep the horn.”

  Magnus nodded but didn’t look convinced. He glanced back at Ralph, his face drooping and weary. Ralph met his eyes, winked.

  “Ready to go?” said Frank.

  Ralph nodded.

  “Good luck,” said Joel. He handed a torch each to Frank and Ralph, who then exited the car. Ralph was holding the flare gun; Frank hefted his axe, scanning the area around them.

  The world was silent. Ralph liked the silence.

  “After you,” said Ralph.

  Frank opened the gate. The two men walked up the stone path to the house.

  “What if they’re still home,” Ralph asked. “And they don’t want visitors?”

  “What?”

  Ralph gestured towards the house. “What if Florence’s uncle and aunt are armed to the teeth in there…?”

  “They could be infected,” said Frank.

  “That’s what I meant by ‘to the teeth’.”

  “Idiot.”

  “So we’ll just knock on the door and ask to come in?”

  “We’ll see what happens.”

  The lawn was snooker table green. Gnomes watched them with dead eyes and wicked smiles, having a whale of a time. White beards and pointy hats. One of the gnomes was standing by the small pond, holding a fishing rod. Goldfish sucked tiny bugs from the water’s surface.

  “Why are we here?” asked Ralph.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I promised Florence I’d take her here so she’d stay with me. I have to show Florence that I’m here to look after her. It’s the only way she’ll trust me.”

  “You want her to stay with us, don’t you?”

  Frank avoided Ralph’s gaze. “She’s safer with us. We can look after her.”

  “She’s not ours to look after. She’s not our responsibility.”

  “Yes, she is. Her parents are dead. I saved her back in Wishford. We can’t just leave her. She won’t survive without us.”

  “Without you, you mean.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen how you look at her.”

  “Shut up, Ralph.”

  “She’s not Emily. She’s not your daughter.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? I’m not sure you do. I think your judgement is clouded by her resemblance to Emily.”

  “Stop saying her name.”

  “Emily’s gone. Florence can’t replace her.”

  “Shut up,” said Frank. “Please shut up.”

  “I’m looking after you, mate. I don’t know if Joel and Magnus have noticed it, as well, but I’m sure they’d say the same as me.”

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know more than you think. Florence can’t replace Emily. Florence isn’t your daughter. You can’t be her surrogate father.”

  Ralph looked through one of the windows and cupped his face. He could only see shadows and suggestions of dim shapes. Nothing moved. His breath bled from his mouth and fogged the glass.

  “I have to protect her,” Frank said. “It’s meant to be. What choice do we have?”

  Ralph stared at him. Frank met his stare and didn’t flinch.

  “If her aunt and uncle are alive, do you promise to let Florence go with them?”

  Frank closed his eyes. Opened them. “I promise.”

  “Good.”

  “But part of me hopes we don’t find them.”

  “Fair enough. I figured that. But if we do, you let her go. I’ll make you, if I have to. Our only aim should be getting home, not babysitting some orphaned little girl.”

  “What else should I have done? Abandoned her? Left her to die?”

  “She’s not our problem. You were never obliged to rescue her. We have to look after our own. You’ve risked your life to keep her safe. You could have left Catherine a widow just because of your fucking morals.”

  “I don’t want to argue, Ralph. Florence is just a little girl.”

  “You should have left her to die. Survival of the fittest. Darwinism.”

  Frank gripped his axe tighter.

  Ralph stared back at him. But then turned away from him and looked at the front door. “Do you want to knock?”

  Frank twisted the door knob, pushed the door open. He looked at Ralph. “Ladies first.”

  Ralph stepped through the doorway.

  * * *

  Ralph held the flare gun and the torch, expecting something to leap
at him from one of the rooms. The hallway was tidy, nothing out of place. Coats hanging on a rack. A pair of woman’s tennis shoes placed together. Paintings on the wall. Looked like some sort of modern art, all weird shapes and bright colours, a nonsense greater than the sum of its parts. There was a small table in the hallway, topped with ceramic ornamental fairies, coins and an opened packet of chewing gum.

  A stairway beckoned him upstairs. Ralph turned away. Frank was checking the living room. Ralph followed him. Frank opened the curtains, letting in daylight. A beige carpet. Cream-coloured walls and a three-piece-suite. No bodies. A faint smell of air freshener. Ralph saw a stack of science fiction novels on a table in the corner; Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, and that bloke who wrote the book Blade Runner was based upon. A painting of Niagara Falls above the fireplace. More photos of a man and a woman. Looked to be in their thirties. They were hugging in each photo. And smiling. Lots of smiling. Ralph already disliked them.

  “Look here,” said Frank.

  Ralph looked. There was a photo of Florence and two adults. Her parents. Frank stared at the photo until Ralph took it from him and replaced it on the mantelpiece.

  “Come on. Let’s check the rest of the house.”

  Ralph pulled back the curtains in the kitchen. There was a smell of yeast and sweat.

  A man’s clothes had been discarded on the floor. A blue t-shirt and khaki trousers. Black socks and boxer shorts.

  “What do you think of that?” said Ralph.

  Frank crouched, prodded the t-shirt with his axe. “Weird.”

  “That sums up the last few days.”

  “They’re not torn,” said Frank.

  “But it looks like they’ve been taken off in a hurry.”

  “True.”

  “Do you smell that?”

  “As soon as I walked in here. It’s like yeast.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing good.”

  There was a door leading away from the kitchen into dreamy shades of ash and darkness.

  “You want to go through that door, don’t you?” said Ralph.