Ferine Apocalypse (Novella): 4 Hours (2 page)

They drifted off the pavement, into the middle of the road.

It was eerie.

Too quiet.

At this time of day, traffic would normally be slackening off. A few government cars, maybe some service vehicles.

It wouldn’t be dead.

No vehicles at all.

Pearcey had collected a lot of the people who were seconded to the centre and he’d experienced the mounting emptiness, the lack of activity on streets that should be bustling.

This was different.

Then, he’d been mostly confined to cars and with a definite objective. Find out if the person was active, unaffected by the City Flu or Sweeping Sickness or whatever the hell it was called, and bring them in.

Get the job done and move on to the next boyo or girly on the list.

He hadn’t really taken any time to sample the atmosphere or think too deeply about the implications of what was happening.

Had actively tried not to think about it, if he was honest.

Pondering it wasn’t going to achieve anything. So he put it to the back of his mind and concentrated on the task.

It struck him then though. There was something unnerving about standing there in the creepy silence.

It wasn’t entirely silent when he listened.

There were distant ringing sounds.

Alarms.

Sporadic crashes and booms. Again, distant, not nearby, but the sound carried in the stillness.

And the air.

There was something about the way the air tasted.

It had been sweet when he’d first emerged after being locked down there. Now though, there was something strange, a slight flavour at the back of his throat.

Not the usual diesel-petrol city undercurrent that you failed to even register after a while.

It came to him and he was mildly irritated that he hadn’t instantly noticed it.

Subtle, far away, but it was the smell of burning.

London’s burning baby, and there ain’t no firemen to put the fires out. Let’s hope it rains because, otherwise, it’s just gonna burn.

The introspection stopped at that point.

A figure appeared at the end of the street.

It moved in an odd way.

Difficult to define the oddness at distance.

Hard to put into words what flashed through Pearcey’s mind, but the way that figure moved made the hairs on his arms stand up.

Spat a little shot of adrenalin into his blood.

“Is that one of them?”

Gallagher spoke without thinking and the figure stopped abruptly.

“One of the things you saw on the videos?”

The figure began to move toward them.

“I don’t know, but I think we’re about to find out.”

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If that person had looked wrong from a distance, the wrong just became more pronounced as they drew closer.

There were alarms going off in Pearcey’s head that dwarfed those in the city. Made them seem insignificant.

The movement was the most obvious thing.

It was feral.

Bestial.

It reminded him of an animal that had scented prey and was sizing up the possibilities.

Figuring out the best target and the best approach. It also reminded him of what he’d seen at the presentation.

Except now it was real.

Flesh and blood, not pixels on a screen.

Unlike any flesh and blood he’d ever encountered. Coming at them with the inevitability of the sun setting in the sky.

<><><>

It had been a woman.

That was a guess, but Pearcey thought it was right.

Maybe a cleaner.

That was stretching the logic but it made sense from what he could see and absorb in that stutter shock instant.

The clothing as much as anything else suggested an occupation. Made him think about what she might have been before this madness descended like darkness.

The tattered remains of one of those aprons that office cleaners wear.

And that explanation would fit the circumstances. There were a lot of offices around Westminster.

So there were a lot of cleaners.

From the waist down, she was naked. Had lost whatever clothes had covered her.

Before she’d caught the City Flu.

Before she’d changed and woken from the coma-like condition.

Been born again into a new existence.

Her legs were sickly captivating.

Wasted yet somehow fearsome.

Corded, almost mechanical and giving the impression of immense power despite the strangely emaciated appearance.

He glimpsed her sex and was appalled.

The remains of clothing were the most human thing about her.

<><><>

As she got nearer, more detail revealed itself.

Pearcey was mesmerised. Professionalism fell away and was replaced by horrified fascination.

The head was too big.

Largely hairless.

A few wisps left. Straggling strands that appeared as if they were about to wave goodbye to everything and everyone.

Arms and legs that were emaciated and corded. Ropes of something unknowable, sitting below skin that rippled like liquid metal.

Those limbs were way too thin. Only vaguely human, and yet they held the suggestion of savage strength.

Hands that were too big. Fingers too long and tipped with points that were effectively talons.

And then she moved faster. The gradual, calculating approach disappeared and the speed was awesome.

Took Pearcey by surprise.

Had him fumbling for the gun in his jacket like some no-hoper. Someone without the natural instinct that marked you out as being resourceful and expedient enough for leadership. Not characteristic of a chap who was capable of more than grunt and follow.

Pearcey had always been more than a grunt and follow kind of guy.

He cursed himself as those whip thin arms clamped his shoulders and bowled him over. Felt a depth of self-disgust that would have made his long-gone instructors smile with pleasure at his self-awareness.

He reacted with training and temperament because they were all he had.

Ignored the damage the talons inflicted.

Barbs that punched his flesh.

Tore through his tough coat as a thorn will puncture flesh. Waxed cotton and padded lining pierced like wet paper.

Thrust his hands at the creature’s shoulders and gripped as best he could. It wasn’t easy gripping that rippling flesh.

Like trying to hold molten wood.

Carlton Pearcey would always give challenge a run for its money. It was part of his nature.

Along with a number of other traits.

An inability to admit defeat was paramount amongst those. Pearcey couldn’t give in unless pushed to extremes. Even then, it was grudging.

That characteristic was closely trailed by rebellious and cynical.

All of his files would tell you that in carefully couched terms. A wonder that he had ever got a job in government circles. A product of circumstance.

Such was the beauty of friendship and debt.

His innate capability played a part.

It helped if you were actually quite good at what you did.

Pearcey wrestled the thing above him. Somehow avoided snapping jaws.

Felt his arms tiring.

Enormous strength in a skeletal frame. Bearing down on him.

The sting of gashes on his shins.

Clawed feet ripping through denim.

Spittle flecked his cheeks. Spilling from the creature’s mouth as it strained to bite his face.

He cursed himself again for being unprepared.

Entranced by the unknown, when the unknown was what he’d been trained to deal with. Maybe it was age. Maybe he was just too far past his best to cope with a serious situation. Like a footballer who plays on after his legs have gone.

He considered the gun and the knife and attempted to gauge a method to bring them into play.

Change the game.

You have to remember that it’s all a game. When it gets too real, that will see you through. Play the game until the last minute and pray for extra time. An added minute or two. A second, because that’s all it takes. Don’t give up.

He closed his mouth to avoid the dripping liquid.

Flexed his arms to avoid the pistoning jaw.

Drew up his legs to avoid the scraping feet. Was about to attempt a throw when the pressure shifted to his right.

Then dropped away completely.

Gallagher stood above him for a frozen moment and then blurred away.

Pearcey rolled and righted himself.

Ready now. The gun in his right hand and the knife in the left.

Watched Gallagher hit the cleaner-woman creature-thing as it attempted to rise. Shatter its head in a spray of thick red fluid.

Hit it again because it wouldn’t stay down.

Step back panting and gasping.

Exhausted and disgusted.

The iron bar that he’d brought with him clasped in both hands.

Dripping.

“What the fuck is going on?”

As he spoke the words, Gallagher turned to him and spread his arms, the red-wet steel flicking blood in a flaring arc.

Pearcey shook his head.

“Fucked if I know my friend, but I’m beginning to think that what was on the footage was genuine. Real.”

Gallagher hadn’t seen the films.

Not that it would have prepared him.

It hadn’t prepared Pearcey, and Pearcey was a veteran. Forged in the fire of a fair few conflicts, none of them clean.

There were some things that you couldn’t train for.

Some things defied analysis, quantification and definition. You either could or you couldn’t.

That was why he’d wanted Gallagher to come with him. Gallagher had a natural expediency about him.

That and the fact that Sonny Jim Gallagher had his own agenda. One with which Pearcey could identify.

The both inspected the twitching creature on the ground. Head cracked, lumpy maroon liquid seeping on to the tarmac. The wound was horrible, but it paled when compared to the thing itself.

She was hideous.

Made Pearcey’s flesh crawl and a little shiver run down his spine.

“That is one ugly bastard.”

It appeared that, amongst his other qualities, Gallagher had a talent for understatement.

Ugly didn’t do it justice. Just scratched the surface.

Pearcey looked around.

Another figure had appeared at the end of the road.

Behind that another two.

The clock was ticking.

“Yeah, and here are some of its ugly fucking friends. Come on Sonny. Let’s get back inside. In light of this, I think we need to reassess the situation and I don’t intend doing it here on the street.”

As they swiftly re-entered the building, Pearcey glanced at the sky. Light was an apt word, they didn’t have a whole load of that left.

And whatever they decided to do, he really didn’t want to be out here in the dark.