Demise of the Living Read online

  IAIN MCKINNON

  A PERMUTED PRESS book

  Published at Smashwords

  Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-61868-130-0

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61868-131-7

  Demise of the Living copyright © 2013

  by Iain McKinnon

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Roy Migabon.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  To Alison simply the most wonderful woman in the world.

  To Brennus for making me strive to be better.

  To Audrey and Emma for giving me your time, your support and your help.

  To Mum and Dad for always being there for me.

  To Peter, Joe and Dave thanks for the inspiration and the sound advice.

  And to my online buddies too numerous to mention and too prized to forget. Thank you for all the crowd sourced answers on Facebook.

  The sound track to writing this novel:

  Nine Inch Nails, Combichrist, Psy (yes I know).

  There are none who can defeat death.

  There are none who can silence death’s roar.

  And there is nothing of man’s making that can endure forever.

  For as long as man is at war with himself.

  For as long as hostility and hate rule.

  For all eternity there can be no likeness of death.

  No living face may turn unblinking to the sun.

  None can seize the distinction between the living and the dead.

  And death’s release forever will remain a mystery unto man.

  For when demons and gods conspire, the mother of fate is forced to act.

  It is she who decrees the demise of the living.

  --From the Epic of Gilgamesh

  Monday

  Chapter 1

  Break

  “Calm down,” Liz pleaded.

  “Get out of the road,” Harrison cursed.

  There was no way the shambling fool could hear him. Harrison's voice was raised, his annoyance clear from his tone, but it was restricted to the confines of the car.

  Harrison peeped his horn and shouted, “For fuck’s sake!”

  “This isn't helping,” Liz said. She glanced at the kids in the back seat.

  Harrison looked round and smiled at the young boy and girl.

  The two children had been sitting quietly, engrossed with the cartoon playing on tiny screens, headphones clamped over their ears, but now they were focused on their stepfather’s rage.

  “They can't hear a fucking thing,” Harrison said, unaware the children had taken an interest.

  “We've got a long trip ahead of us and I don't want it getting uncomfortable so soon,” Liz replied.

  Harrison’s cheeks were flushed. He waved his hand to point out the man’s lumbering movements towards the car. “Look at him! Look at him now. Still drunk from last night.”

  Liz looked out at the pitiful fellow. His hair was matted and tussled. He wore a crumpled and soiled suit jacket and his tieless shirt was awash with dirt and grime.

  “Just drive around him and stop making a fuss about it,” she said.

  Harrison looked at his watch. “We were almost an hour late leaving and we’re not even out of town yet when this moron starts with us. I've got a good mind to just run him down.”

  “Now don’t be ridiculous. You’re just causing a drama out of nothing.”

  Harrison swung the steering wheel down and swerved as if he was about to circle around him. As they drew level he stopped the car.

  “Is the man okay?” Melissa asked from the back.

  “What are you doing?” Liz asked Harrison.

  Harrison didn't answer her. He pressed the button to roll the window down.

  He leaned his head out and hollered, “Hey buddy, get off the fucking road!”

  “Harrison, for God’s sake, don’t,” Liz said.

  “Who’s pissed on Harrison’s parade?" Grant asked.

  Liz turned to see both Grant and Melissa had slipped their headphones off and were paying close attention. Grant had his biological father’s physique, stocky yet well-built, but with Liz’s eyes and mouth. Melissa, on the other hand, could have been a clone of her mother, tall and thin as a twig.

  “Grant, I have told you not to use that language,” Liz said. “Now sit back down and let your dad and I deal with this.”

  “You mean Harrison and you,” Grant said cheekily.

  Harrison glanced at Grant in the rear-view mirror. “Would it kill you to call me Dad just once?” he asked.

  He leaned out the window again.

  “What is he doing, ma?” Melissa asked.

  Liz barely stopped herself from blurting out, ‘Your step dad’s being a dick.’ Although true, she knew it would only serve to heighten the tension.

  “Let the grown-ups deal with this, children,” she said, falling back on one of her parenting stock responses.

  “You being a smartass or something?!” they heard Harrison shout.

  The man slowly shuffled his way up to the driver’s window like a geriatric bereft of the energy or will to move any faster. He drew so close that Liz lost sight of him through the narrow field of vision between her husband and the roof of the car.

  “I can’t see—who’s Harrison talking to?” Melissa asked, bobbing her head to look out of the side window. “Let the fuck go!” Harrison shouted.

  “What’s going on?” Liz asked, trying to peer past her husband.

  There was a scream.

  “Let go of me, you fucking pussy!” The car door was thrown open, but blocked by the vagrant it bounced back with a thud.

  “Harrison! Not in front of the kids,” Liz scolded.

  Harrison tried again to push the door open to get out, but it was impossible. The man was too close and the door kept being slammed shut as they tussled.

  “Harrison, what are you doing?” Liz asked, her voice raised.

  “Jesus Christ! Fuck off, you filthy bastard!”

  “You’re not supposed to use that language,” Grant said, parroting his mother with a singsong voice.

  “Grant, you be quiet!” Liz shouted. She turned back to her husband. “Stop it, Harrison. Just drive on.”

  There was a scream and a spray of blood squirted across the windshield.

  Liz froze. She looked at the blood and it took a moment for her to realise it was running down the inside of the windscreen.

  She put a hand to her mouth to stop herself from screaming but it was too late. Shrieks of terror were soon bouncing around the confines of the car.

  Harrison was being pulled through the open window, fighting and flailing as he went.

  “Harrison?” Liz said.

  It dawned on her that Harrison was in dire need of help.

  “Stay here!” she shouted at her children through the thick noise of the screams.

  She fumbled for the release to unbuckle her seatbelt, unable to concentrate with the screeching bombarding her. Beside her, her husband was now almost completely removed from the car through the driver’s-side window, still kicking and thrashing.

  Liz looked down at her seatbelt clasp and pushed the red button. The seatbelt clicked free. She turned and yanked at the door handle. Throwing the door open, she bolted from the car.

  Immediately the screams from her family seemed more distant. The low morning sun cast gargantuan shadows across the street, making it feel like the bottom of a
canyon. Like a canyon, the air felt cold and damp. Yet there was something else in the air: a faintly rancid smell, repugnant and disconcerting that caught the back of her nose. She shook off the surreal feeling pressing down on her and ran to the front of the car.

  The man in the dishevelled suit was savaging her husband. The attacker was grabbing at Harrison and nuzzling his head in as if trying to force a kiss. All the while Harrison screamed and thrashed and tried to push his attacker away.

  Liz grabbed the man by the shoulders and pulled.

  She cried, “Get off him!”

  The man stumbled back a pace before renewing his attack.

  “Leave him alone!”

  Liz was shouting and crying as she tugged at the man’s jacket, trying to lever him off. The fabric was damp, soaked in Harrison’s blood. Undeterred by the warm stickiness, she pulled so hard that the arm of the jacket tore away at the seam. The sudden loss of tension sent her tumbling back, her grip lost to the viscous blood. She staggered a few short paces before slipping and falling to the hard tarmac. She landed painfully on her coccyx, a scream shooting up from the impact point.

  As she sat in indignation, legs splayed in the middle of the road, the attacker renewed his assault on her husband.

  The rear car door sprang open and Grant jumped out.

  “Get back in the car, Grant! Now!” Liz screamed.

  The young boy looked at his mother and then at his step dad. He shouted, “Dad!” and threw himself at the attacker.

  “Get back in the car this instant!” Liz screamed, scrambling to her feet.

  Grant ignored her.

  As Liz dashed back into the fray she spotted a man across the street.

  “Help! Help, over here!”

  The man turned in the direction of Liz’s voice and upped his pace, making a beeline for her.

  “Grant, get back in the car now!”

  The boy continued to ignore her, punching and kicking furiously.

  Liz slapped both hands on the attacker’s shoulders and yanked hard, trying to prize the two apart. She pulled with all her strength, but it made no difference; the pair was locked in an inseparable brawl.

  Harrison’s screams were less coherent now. He coughed and burbled as the man attacking him robbed him of his strength.

  Grant was at the side, thumping repeated but ineffective blows against the assailant. “Leave him alone!” he screamed in his high-pitched, adolescent voice.

  Liz renewed her grip on the attacker’s shoulders, pulling hard. The man’s suit felt wet and cold and there was slipperiness to the cloth that made it difficult to hold onto.

  The coppery smell of blood mingled with the cool morning air.

  Grant was now screaming and viciously kicking the attacker in the shins.

  A palm landed firmly on Liz’s shoulder. She turned, expecting to see the man she had called on for help. It was him, but he wasn’t help. She found herself staring at a set of snarling teeth set in a face of shredded crimson flesh.

  The man lunged at her.

  She felt her knees give way and she slumped to the ground, effetely ducking under the assailant’s grasping hands.

  She heard Grant cry, “Let my ma alone!”

  Her son switched targets and was bringing the full force of his eight year-old fury on the second attacker.

  Liz scurried back, twisting and kicking. Stumbling up from all fours, she grabbed Grant’s wrist.

  “Back in the car now!” she screamed, red-cheeked and furious.

  Not waiting for his reaction, she pushed him in the direction of the open car door. She could see Melissa scrunched in a tight ball on the back seat, shaking with terror, but she had no time to comfort her.

  She turned and sprinted to the rear of the car. Grabbing the handle, she yanked open the hatchback to reveal the family’s neatly-packed suitcases and other holiday paraphernalia.

  She reached past the bag of golf clubs and seized Harrison’s golf umbrella.

  As she dashed back to the front of the car, she was horrified to see her son hadn’t returned to his seat. He had instead instinctively followed her.

  “Grant!”

  The second attacker grabbed the boy and lunged at him.

  Liz stepped forward, using the momentum of her run, and like a medieval pikeman she thrust the point of the umbrella into the man’s chest. The blow ricocheted off the bone of his sternum, chiselling out a flap of skin and forcing the silver tip of the umbrella up and into the underside of the man’s jaw. The point vanished under the skin and slid deep into the stubbly flesh between his neck and chin.

  The man stumbled back, but was unperturbed by his impalement. Now held upright by the makeshift spear, he was no longer able to bend down and bite at the child in his grasp. He let go of Grant and turned as best as he could to focus on Liz, his eyes pale and unblinking.

  Liz stood there, firmly holding the handle of the golf umbrella. The point must have been a good four or five inches into his jaw, deep enough to have pierced his soft palate and even further through the roof of his mouth.

  The reality of what she had just done hit her. She had just impaled a complete stranger.

  Liz looked into the man’s eyes, expecting to offer him an apology for what she had just done. But in spite of the excruciating pain he must be feeling, he simply gazed at her with empty white eyes.

  His shoulders shifted and he threw out an arm, pawing stiffly at her.

  Liz screamed at the unexpectedness of the renewed attack. In sheer panic she gripped the hilt of the umbrella tight and thrust it upward. The point slipped deeper, then met with something hard and resistant. Liz bobbed her head to avoid being caught by his flailing hands and shoved harder. The shaft of the umbrella flexed and threatened to give. Grunting, Liz shoved harder. The umbrella buckled and there was a wet-sounding snap, but instead of it splitting in two the spike lurched forward and slithered further up into the man’s skull.

  The attacker became heavy. His arms dropped to his sides, letting go of the boy. He fell forward, finally collapsing at Liz’s feet.

  Liz grabbed her son by the scruff of the neck and physically threw him into the back of the car, slamming the door shut behind him.

  She now turned to help Harrison. The first attacker had succeeded in hauling him through the open car window and onto the road. He was bent down on top of her husband, snarling and chomping.

  Harrison was motionless except for the few trembles caused by the attacker’s gnawing.

  Grant’s muffled crying could be heard from within the car. “Ma... Ma...”

  Liz looked back at the sobbing children and mouthed the word stay to them.

  She then looked back at Harrison.

  “No,” she whispered.

  She cautiously crept over to the body with the umbrella wedged under its chin.

  With her eyes on the man gnawing at Harrison, she grasped the handle of the umbrella. She pulled and the dead man’s head nodded with each tug, but the weapon remained imbedded.

  She placed a blood-spattered court shoe on the man’s face to brace against the force and heaved backwards.

  The umbrella slithered free with a loud slurp. The silver tip was masked behind a sheen of red and grey gloop.

  With one hand on the handle and the other halfway along the shaft, Liz thrust her makeshift weapon side-on into the man on top of Harrison.

  The umbrella penetrated half a foot through the man’s ribs.

  Liz let go and the firmly embedded spike bobbed around as the assailant continued to rip chunks from her dead husband.

  She grabbed the shaft again and leaning into it as hard as she could, pushed it further in. The umbrella slid deeper into the man’s chest until Liz felt the solid clunk of rib cage on the far side.

  She stepped back in disbelief. A good third of the golfing umbrella was stuck inside the man.

  She slipped to the side to get a better look at her husband. The cannibal was bobbing in and out, taking chunks of flesh with
each peck. Harrison lay unmoving, his eyes staring off into the distance as if he were having an absent moment of thought.

  “Oh God.”

  Liz clamped her hand over her mouth to quell the rising bile. The enormity of everything that had just happened slowly crept its way into her conscious mind.

  A hoarse moan echoed between the canyon-like buildings.

  Liz turned towards the sound and saw another shambling figure emerging from the shadows. This person was a woman about the same build as her, but it was impossible to put an age to her. Her hair spilt down, covering most of her face, but the one feature Liz could see clearly was the fresh blood dripping from her mouth.

  As she looked deeper into the shadows she saw more movement. More and more figures with the same swaggering gait were making their way towards her.

  She took one last look at her dead husband before sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the car.

  ***

  “Morning, Gary,” John said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Lund,” the security guard replied. “You're in early."

  John gave the ritual flash of his I.D. badge. It was too short a glimpse for the security guard to register anything about it, but it was a formality. John worked here for nearly nine years now, a career that had ground to a halt in this regional office.

  “Traffic was quiet today,” John said.

  The traffic had indeed been light, but that wasn’t the reason he’d come into work so early. He had in fact been woken several times in the night by sirens and rowdy drunks outside. The Glen, a beautiful new housing estate when he’d transferred here, was not as nice an area as it had been, and year upon year the number of police call-outs increased. Although he’d become somewhat hardened to the noise, last night was the worst he’d ever known. The sirens seemed to never stop. After one particularly protracted bout of hollering died out, John had found himself unable to get back to sleep. So rather than lying awake and worrying about getting back to sleep, he decided he would go to work. It would be quiet for two or maybe even three hours. He could make a lot of headway into the team’s quarterly reviews without Sharon’s constant pestering.