one twisted voice Read online

  Attack!

  His mind flashed back to during the earlier drive back from Killin, and the look of hunger that the woman in the hotel car park had sent after him. The radio had been a distraction that he hadn’t really been paying attention to but its message must have sunk in subconsciously. The radio signal had been breaking up, crackling, stuttering, but he recalled the stories of the flu plague and the attempts at vaccinating the sufferers. He recalled the unsubstantiated rumours that the “expert” so flippantly dismissed. But it was true, it wasn’t a story conjured by the panicking populace, a flight of fantasy borne of fear, of loathing, of mistrust of a despised government. The vaccine – untested and rushed – had dire side effects. It was killing people in their droves. But worse than that…it was then bringing them back. And they were hungry!

  The boy grabbed at him.

  In terror he kicked out and sent the boy tumbling across the road.

  A fat farmer type, a flat cap perched over a once flaccid face, grabbed at him and he had to doge aside to gain space.

  He snapped his gaze around, watching as the figures shambled towards him. Dozens of them, blank eyed, mouths open and drooling. Some of them already carried signs that they had already fed because there was blood on many chins. Some even showed that they had been previous victims, but that they had risen to join the ranks of the undead puppets of the vaccine. Some missed parts of their faces, or their limbs: one even trip-tripped over his own entrails that were pooled around his feet like links of sausage in a butcher’s window.

  He caught a waft of hot air, a charnel house stench that made him gag, as the nearer figures lurched towards him. Their hands were coming up, reaching and grasping.

  He sought a way past them, but he was surrounded.

  He was in the wilds for God’s sake! How could there be so many people here to fall victim to the plague?

  Of course nowhere in the mainland is that remote anymore. Even in an outback, out of the way place, like this loch valley, there’d be dozens, no hundreds of people. He remembered that a few miles away at Kenmore there was a large holiday complex, a hotel, a village. The same could be said for Killin, and all of the hamlets and farms dotted in between. Christ! He had come here to get away from it all, but that wasn’t possible. There was nowhere on earth safe from the apocalypse that was coming, he now understood.

  He wouldn’t give up, though. Not while there was a chance. Even the slimmest opportunity for survival had to be grabbed at.

  He ran.

  There was no clear way through, for the shambling things were encircling him, but there was a narrow gap just ahead of him filled only by the small girl. Those around him were primarily adults, some of them slighter, but most bulkier than him. The girl therefore was the easiest target for his torch as he ran headlong for her.

  He swung the Maglite up and back over his shoulder, then at a full gallop swiped the heavy torch down like an axe. It smashed the child’s head, and the rest of her down to the floor and he vaulted over her collapsing figure. Hands snatched at him, but he jerked free and continued running. A chorus of screams followed him, but he broke free and fled, his heart in his throat, for the safety of his rental cottage, and the car that waited for him there.

  The phone box was broken; his damned mobile phone had no signal out here. His only hope of escape and assistance was if he made it to his car, locked the doors and got the fuck out of there as fast as he could.

  He found the white gate standing open, as he had left it, and pounded down the gravel drive. Ahead of him was the flower-covered cottage, and the light he’d left on in the kitchen was like a beacon to him. But he’d no intention of going to the cottage. He swerved for his car and grabbed at the door. Locked. He had fetched the Maglite from the car, locked it out of old city-bred habit. He grabbed at his pockets, searching for his keys. All the while he snatched glances back the way he’d come. His movements became more frantic as he saw the first figures shambling through the darkness towards him.

  Josh dropped the torch so that he had both hands to help in the search. Jesus–fucking-Christ, where are they? He couldn’t find his keys.

  Dread struck him.

  When he’d pulled out his cigarettes earlier, when he’d been spooked and required calming, he must have also snagged his keys alongside the packet, and dropped them back there on the road.

  Holy shit!

  He snatched up the torch. Not for its light but that it was a handy weapon and then fled towards the cottage.

  He banged through the door and into a mudroom, then into the kitchen beyond. He looked for a knife, anything. Then his stupidity struck him and he ran back to lock the outer door. Figures swarmed through the small garden outside. Faces peered back at him, eyes like black pinholes amid faces glowing with starvation and need.

  The door would hold them, but not the windows.

  Josh retreated into the kitchen and threw that door shut, slamming home the bolts. There were windows in the kitchen, but these were double-glazed and sturdy and would thwart most attempts to get in. No, that wasn’t true. He had to shake his first impression of the walking dead. He’d grown up on schlock horror movies, the more recent video games where zombies were mindless and stupid eating machines. By setting the little girl as a decoy, these things retained some semblance of intelligence and it wouldn’t take them long to find something with which they could smash a way inside. He fled through the kitchen and into the living room. He slammed shut the door and then wrestled a sideboard over to keep the door shut. There was a window at each end of the room – small, original features – and he upturned the settee and jammed it in front of one of them. At the other end of the room was a small study area, and he made use of the desk by upending it and jamming it solidly in the window frame.

  He stood there in the centre of the living room, gaze switching from window to door to opposite window. He could hear them outside; their shrieking calls to feed were growing louder in pitch and frustration. Perspiration pooled out of him. It was nothing to do with the fire still smouldering in the stove, because this was the cold sweat of terror.

  Bump.

  He heard the thud from the stairs.

  Bump…bump…bump…bumpbumpbump.

  Josh exhaled.

  Just the bloody water in the pipes, like the last time.

  Jesus, he thought, and there was me worrying that the fucking cottage was haunted!

  Bump.

  He glanced at the door that led to the stairs.

  Even here in the living room was no safe haven. If they were as intelligent – not to mention as hungry - as he credited them, they’d be in here in no time.

  Upstairs was the best place to be.

  He could stand at the top of the flight of steps. They were narrow between two solid walls, and quite steep. Only one of the damned things could come at him at a time. If he had a more telling weapon than the Maglite he could defend the stair head. Sooner or later the numbers would dwindle and he could make his escape from the cottage, maybe get down into the water of the loch and swim to someplace further along where he could raise help.

  He looked towards the stove and the long metal poker resting on the hearth beneath it. The poker was a foot and a half long, steel, with a spike and prong for raking the embers. He switched the torch to his left hand and grabbed for the poker.

  Bump…bump…bump…bumpbumpbump.

  Fucking pipes!

  He lurched towards the door to the stairs just as the kitchen windows shattered with a deafening bang and clatter.

  They were starving indeed and going straight for the main course.

  A body rebounded off the living room door, moving the sideboard wedged against it a half inch.

  Josh shoved the sideboard back again. Threw a coffee table on top of it, then dragged over the easy chair he’d napped in and jammed that against them both. His barricade wouldn’t stop the undead, but it would slow them while he gained a defensive position.

  He had to
drop the torch in order to haul open the door.

  It swung inwards towards him and he had to twist his body to give it clearance.

  He twisted back and took a step up for the first stair.

  ‘Noooooo….’

  The woman was waiting for him. The one he’d seen staring at him from the hotel car park. She’d seen him, targeted him, fucking followed him back here. She had waited for him to leave and sneaked inside while her friends corralled him back here. The bitch had laid her trap.

  Bump…bump…bump…bumpbumpbump.

  Her heels skidded down the stairs, and she came at Josh open mouthed, her teeth glistening in the wan light. Snot was all over her, drool pooling in the corners of her lips, her eyes deep, hollow pits.

  She shrieked.

  Not a call to feed this time but because he’d rammed the sharp end of the poker into her stomach.

  The length of steel held her for only a second. She didn’t fight to get away, only came forward, remorseless, throwing her weight along the metal rod as she grabbed his face in her hands.

  Josh tried to wrench loose, but her grip was rictus-like, fuelled by a strength that had nothing in common with the world he knew or understood. She continued to push along the poker and the tip burst from between her shoulder blades. He let go of the poker, but it didn’t help. Her grip on him was unflinching. He pulled and wrenched but her fingers were digging into the flesh of his face.

  Josh howled in agony.

  Her fingertips were digging directly into his flesh, the nails grating along the bones of his skull. One of her thumbs found the corner of his right eye and began to squirm deep into the socket.

  ‘Nooooooooo!’ he screamed.

  Half-blinded, half-insane with agony, nothing came near the terror that welled up in him as the woman snapped her teeth into his throat. He felt her grind her jaws together, felt the cartilage of his windpipe collapse under the horrific pressure. Then she tore back and blood filled the air between them.

  Finally she loosed her grip and he crumpled down. The weight of his upper body caused his knees to fold, torque sideways and Josh flopped over backwards to lie on his back at the foot of the stairs.

  He moaned, but nothing issued from his ruined throat but bubbling froth.

  Over him the woman stood, munching in satisfaction on the chunk of flesh she had torn out of him.

  Absurd if it wasn’t so real.

  His good eye rolled up, his lids flickering rapidly and Josh saw the living room door forced slowly open. The furniture toppled, crashing down close by his head. He didn’t have the strength or the will to flinch. Figures stumbled into the room, all of them hungry and grinning in anticipation. He hoped they were as hungry as they looked and didn’t leave a morsel behind, because he sure didn’t fancy joining their ranks.

  If this was the Apocalypse then he wanted to go now.

  Or, noo, as it happened.

  Well, Dad, he thought, if there is an afterlife I’m going to see you soon. Hopefully you’ll let me make my peace with you then?

  Author’s note:

  This story originally appeared in print under the pen name of Vallon Jackson in the collection “Holiday of the Dead” (Wild Wolf Publishing)

  SPLITTING HEIRS

  Three million pounds plus. That was what James Caruthers left behind when he died. James wasn’t known to have that kind of money behind him. He lived in a council bungalow with three cats and his neighbours barely knew him. In fact, most of them steered clear of the old man who spent most days in a greatcoat and wool cap, whatever the weather. No one knew what he got up to inside his decrepit home because of the newspaper taped over the windows. Daily a care assistant would turn up, make sure that he was still breathing and shove a ready meal in the microwave oven, then they’d be out of there wrinkling their noses at the stench clinging to their clothing. Other than that, James’s only other contact with humanity was when the milkman delivered his single pint of gold top. James would peer out over the chain on his door and give a gruff thank you, before slamming and locking the door again.

  One morning the milkman raised his concern to the police when the old man didn’t come to the door. The cops turned up, broke in, and found James lying in the corner of his kitchen. There was half a sandwich on a saucer next to the blazing gas fire in the living room. The other half – missing a single bite - was in the kitchen sink, as well as a wad of masticated bread and corned beef. It was concluded that the old man had choked on the sandwich, made it to the sink where he’d hacked it up, but his overtaxed heart had then given out. No suspicious circumstances. Case closed. No investigation.

  When James was buried, no one turned out for his service.

  When someone dies without leaving a will, and no one turns up to claim their inheritance, the government can claim the money. Still, they have an obligation to publish the fact that money has been left, to give an heir the opportunity to come forward. When big money is at stake – three million two hundred thousand and thirty three pounds in this case – there are specialist firms out there willing to jump at the chance to find the rightful heir. For a hefty commission, of course.

  That’s where I come in.

  It’s a race. Other firms will have their best investigators on the case. Public records, birth certificates, marriage certificates, all will be checked to discern the rightful heir, then these companies will fight tooth and nail to get to the lucky recipient first – bearing the good news and the offer to represent their new client.

  I was the first to make it to Robert Wilson’s front door, but I knew the others wouldn’t be far behind me. If I wanted my payday, I had to make sure that Robert Wilson did not deal with anyone from the other firms.

  Wilson was a man in his late fifties. He didn’t even know he was the first child born of a union between James Caruthers and his now deceased mother, Ingrid. He looked at me suspiciously as I handed him my card and explained why I had turned up at his door on a cold, winter’s evening. As soon as I mentioned the money though, he invited me in to his living room. It looked like he’d inherited more than money from his late father: his house was a stinking hole that he shared only with cats.

  That was good, really. No wife, no kids, no extended family to contest this turn of events.

  I accepted the offer of tea – even though I’d never touch his filthy cup to my lips – and followed him into his kitchen. As he’d turned to fill the kettle, I took his head in both my hands and slammed it down on the corner of the worktop. I aimed so that his temple struck the pointed corner and was gratified to see the deep indentation in his skull as he collapsed dead at my feet. Careful to remove my card from his pocket, I put it back into my wallet. Then I spilled some of the water from the kettle onto the floor, then manipulated Wilson’s foot so that it made a dirty skid mark in the spillage.

  Wilson wouldn’t be inheriting anything any longer.

  The entire estate belonging James Caruthers, plus anything that Robert Wilson had tucked away, would now be going to James’ second born son.

  Of course, I’d have to pay out a little of my good luck in commission to the investigator who found out who I was.

  Author’s note:

  This story appeared first at the webzine “Thrillers, Killers ‘N’ Chillers” and in print in “S-Magazine”.

  THE DAY

  I woke on the day and reached for my wife.

  She did not offer her lips to be brushed by my tremulous fingers. She was gone. On the same day she woke and peered on vistas of gold and turquoise, or such was the heaven promised to her by her faith. I thought that she had gone to a dark and empty place, a nothingness of forever, for who could have faith in anything now? He hadn’t had faith in us.

  I caught the sob in my chest, but it had a will of its own and broke forth as a belch of phlegm that bubbled on my whiskered chin. Shuffling closer to her, the sweetness of decay was rich. Caring not, I placed my lips to her marbled forehead, kissed her gently.

  M
urky opal eyes, stared back at mine, pebbles on the bed of a highland stream seen through peaty water. There were skeins of threads, broken corpuscles making a scarlet maze amid the yellow and purple lividity of her cheek where it lay on the pillow. Once pretty, a pattern of duck-egg blue flowers, forget me not’s, the pillow was now stained black where the essence of life had spilled from her, sticky and gelatinous and congealing.

  In the night death had come for her, spiralling down from a bruise-ridden sky, a harpy on shattered pinions. While I slept in dreamless exhaustion, the claw-footed thing had alighted on my wife’s breast and stole from her the omega exhalation of her time on earth.

  She had been afraid to die. I’d held her and told her not to be frightened. When it’s time I will be there, right beside you, my love. My promise was as cheesecloth carrying water. Well intentioned, yet pointless.

  Crawling from the blankets, the stench of my own body on me, I tucked the duvet around her stiffness. Around me stalked the shades of ghouls, flicking back tattered veils to expose drooling maws. Banshees howled, a demented lament calling her home. Goblin shadows crawled through the detritus of our room, and I fancied I heard their claws scraping on the boards. None would find my love, I swore.

  The jug held enough, and I splashed the flammable liquid upon our bed. Pass censure, I care not. I brought flame and set it to her pyre, sending the imagined night fiends scurrying, for flame is anathema to them all.

  I stood in the road, watching the breeze chase trash below the overgrown hedges. Behind me, the place that was our marital home thundered in on itself, imploding, sending tendrils of smoke to catch at my ankles.

  Where to go? That was the final mystery on the day.

  I walked, following a path untrodden, my bare feet sinking in mulch. Beneath the leaf litter, did insects still crawl? Nothing of the air, or land or sea had survived, I was certain. Chitinous-backed things, though, were they the new lords of this world? Had they always been?