21 July 2007

Two nights ago, I had a dream which, whilst I only recall it in snippets now, has stayed with me in an oddly fond memory. I'm going to write down the story as I recall it, with the story spun on before and after the respective bits and pieces for continuity. Don't worry, the distinction between the two'll be clear as pea soup (I've coloured the bits that are from the dream), so you needn't fear that you'll lose track of what's "real" in this context and what's retrospectively added. It'll have a vaguely story-style format, but as I'm not used to writing first person, may (or may not) read a little awkwardly. We shall see.

Also, I literally forgot why I got detached from my group in my dream, and I can't come up with anything that isn't too cheesy for my liking, so I am going to handle it exactly like that. If I don't know how I got detached, then I damn-well don't know how I got detached.

Roll.

With so many stories, warnings and anecdotes ranking around the survival of the unlucky in nuclear strikes - with the aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the shadows of test upon test, and the Bikini atoll - with the hideous pictures of the deformed, the cancer-suffering, the unfortunate that lived to tell the tale, why does none of them map out the dread and desolation of the unscathed? That smouldering heap of ash? That could have been me. The late victims of cancer? That could have been me. No, 'could' is the wrong word. That should have been me. Why was I spared? Why do I get this priviledge, this luck? I can't look any of those still alive, but suffering, in the eyes... there is no justification for my well-being.

Cancer. Undirected growth of cells that have lost their blueprints - destroyed or corrupted DNA, sending them off building things not meant to live, suffocating all around it. The chances of mutation in cells resulting in anything else are minute - negligible. You have better chances of winning in the lottery than anything sensible arising from aggressive nuclear radiation - gamma waves, high-energy, shredding into the molecules of your very being. If the mutation was identical in each cell of your body, your chances would rise, but that alone is a feat of impossibility.

Of course, if you only have one cell... a bacterium, perhaps? Or a mere protein shell, wrapped around a virus' RNA? A new strain of flu? A natural enemy of the common cold? The ultimate symbiote?

Against all odds, a lone virus has infected some of us - survivors. It's like the worst horror movie cliché. A million in one chance. A gazillion in one chance. What am I saying? A chance so minute I couldn't peg a number on it. My head is spinning. I can't think straight - I don't want to think straight.

Vampires.

If I wasn't stuck in the middle of this havoc, I would laugh. 'Who wrote this script?'

Vampires. Fortunately, not entirely the creatures of lore, but we call them vampires because they feed on blood. Or, well, we assume they feed on blood, but it's hard to say. Perhaps the inkling of perverse humanity in them merely demands their rituals of feeding to involve the draining of blood from their victim - perhaps it's not directly related to their food at all. We don't really want to get close enough to check.

They're quadrupedal creatures, but they keep distinctly human proportions, with the exception of their hindpaws, which seem to curl into more claw-like talons. I've seen them as fleeting shadows so far - not much to work with. The others have seen more, but none of us are biologists, and as such, we're happy knowing the simplest signs of One Of Them - the quadrupedal, awkward gait, and the strange grace and speed. That's all we need to punch a bullet through their chests.

No stakes, no garlic, no... wait, there is sunlight, they don't like sunlight. But other than that, they're normal folks... wandering around... perfectly targettable and susceptible to death like your common human being. The only bothersome thing is their speed, which makes them hard to hit. But if they're coming right at you, they're not about to dodge, and we kill most of them that way.

I say 'most of them' as though we had an infestation. No, no, none of that. We've killed maybe three - possibly four, we never found the corpse of that one, though. We've seen even less, though we've often thought we see one. They've made us paranoid - regardless where we go, we carry a sensation of unease with us in our guts, a subtle but persistant queasiness.

Suburbia is nice, emptied of people. That may sound cruel, but at the moment, I'm happy for anything that makes me smile, regardless how morbid it may be. It is moments like these where I hope there is no afterlife, so that I don't offend those that have deceased, often after long struggles.

There was much stench in the streets a few days after the hit. Not everyone neatly fell to ashes, and not everyone had enough energy to go to the hospital or - with more, fatalistic foresight - to the graveyard. I'll admit I was astonished that anyone did that. Why give up on a graveyard instead of on the middle of the street? Dignity? ...do any of us even have something like that, or is it a myth?

It's been a year now - there is no stench, just the silence of a decimated culture.

Sometimes we still find hideous things, though. When we discovered this house, it wasn't empty. We had to take care of that. I didn't particularly enjoy that - it was my first day with this group. I still feel... new. I don't feel well integrated. I don't feel well, period.

We've kept our encounters simple.

When vampires approach, we waste some ammunition on them. I pretend its only annoying... we all laugh it off. We're all scared, like children afraid of the monster under their beds. So real...

When humans approach, we tell them to find their own town. There's plenty of them now, after all - no need to share. We've had to use force occasionally - in defence. Since even long-lasting food has gone stale in the shops, however, we've not seen other humans in our territory. Everyone grows their own stuff these days - or tries to. Finding live seeds, uncontaminated water and respective earth was the hardest part. We lost a team member to hunger before we'd grown anything worth eating. We had to keep another from eating the saplings before they had a chance to create their own seeds.

All of that was more luck than planning and intelligence. You'd think if you've nothing left, you would have all the time in the world to sit and think. Somehow, life's slowed down, but as has my thought process. I can't speak for the others, but judging from our results, they've fallen victim to the same phenomenom. We're not exactly the best organised bunch.

Such is life here in suburbia.

Sometimes, we have to go into the city again, though. There are still some things there that we find use for - sometimes, specific use. As time passes, the amount we can use decreases... most of what we've salvaged are books, to teach ourselves the inane basics of human survival, since our instincts don't suffice.

A year's not yet too late to use medication, though.

*

None of us fell ill. Like I said, we've all been blessed with a ridiculously good health, in ways that makes me feel guilty. Well, that's not quite true, we were inspired to go back into the city by Paul getting a cold. Not immediately. He sat it out, and perhaps a week later, Adrian mentioned that it might be a good idea to get some standard medication from a pharmacy or hospital in the city, in case we ever needed it. Penicillin, aspirin, and the likes.

In the end, I think it was more about conquering our own fatalistic boredom than anything else. But it was the superficial excuse, and I, for one, have no urge to complain.

We have a strange ritual in our group. We refuse to use old place names - we tried it for a while, only to find it was too painful a reminder of what we'd lost. 'Oxford Street' would just remind us of our lost loved ones, less lucky than we had been - 'Hulme', in turn, would sting, and 'Wythenshawe' stab.

Our names aren't imaginative. The city's main hospital is called Main Hospital now, at least in our handful.

And so we're heading to Main Hospital, a group of four, with the others back at home, two of us armed with guns raided from a gun store. I'd once objected that our having them was illegal, but elicited only laughs. I suppose there's something of a point in that - what's left of the glory of civilisation that created those laws? But I can't help but wonder, if we question that, what will we question next? In those moments, my dread deepens - why are we alive, when many kinder people have had to let their lives?

Either way, they're mostly for show. We're not dealing with an infestation, and the afternoon sun is bright in the sky, heating even our skin uncomfortably, causing subtle subconscious motions that show the world we're alive.

No doubt even the vampires have moved out of town. Or perhaps they've all died out from lack of nutrition.

The idea is to scout to find supplies. It's simple enough a concept, but since people inconveniently left doors closed and locked when they died miserably slow deaths, it can sometimes be tedious. It's why we also keep a crowbar with us - it's served us well so far.

Having no idea where anything is stored is another downside.

Like I said, we're not necessarily the brightest bunch. We've not been handpicked for this mission. We're really quite pathetic, unable to face even our own fears and talk about them, embarrassed as though there was some social structure to condemn us for our terror of the mutants.

I really shouldn't use that word. You see, the virus mutated. Some virus mutated. We don't know which it was - we're not biologists, as already stated, none of us. It infected some poor sod, and it's been carried over to others by bites - like in cheap zombie slasher movies, just horribly, tangibly real. Hideous in its irony. I used to love those movies. Call me shallow.

And then there's the silence.

I have more nightmares about the silence when I sleep at night than of any creature, fictional or - now - unfortunately real. Even after months and months of enduring it, it's still awkward. It's not so much the sound of crowds and talking and the sound of traffic as it is the lack of subtler sounds, such as the sound of a tap being turned on, distant sounds of birds, the tinker of spoons in cafés, the whirr of machinery, the sound of people shifting on their chairs. The sounds that usually fill a silence are amiss. You don't know silence. I'm betting you don't know silence.

In my dreams, its like a noise in itself, a roar, furious, all-consuming.

Suffice to say I'm glad I'm awake right now.

*

Maybe I'm too lost in angsty thoughts.

Somehow I've managed to get detached from the group.

Focus, focus. Why on earth they would even let me wander off on my own is beyond me - and three people not noticing the lack of one of the group seems to be pushing things. But here I am, standing like naked in a corridor, with silence breathing down my neck, and the slow thump of my heart raising its voice gradually to battle the silence into submission.

"Guys?"

The echo disturbs me as much as it soothes my mind - a sound, breaking through the monotony of quiet. But there's no response. I've not somehow daydreamed my way through the corridors of Main Hospital and the vampires have picked my crew off behind me without any resistence, have I?

What am I thinking? That's ridiculous.

Of course, so is standing by yourself in an abandonned hospital, hoping to find remnants of penicillin and aspirin and 'things like that' because you were bored. Standing in an abandonned hospital that may have ridiculously swift, strong creatures likened to vampires in it.

Why did we come here again? It seems like a bad idea all of a sudden.

"Um, guys, this isn't funny anymore."

Oh, the practical joke line. How original. Of course no one responds. Is this an exercise in clichés? I blush, feeling silly. So maybe I'm all on my own for now. If I stay put, that should be fine, they'll find me.

As will anything else.

Why don't I have a weapon, again?

My head spins slightly. My heartrate picks up noticably, hammering insistingly against my chest. My ribs seem to strain under the metaphorical sledgehammer. My gaze becomes spotted with light and shadows, swirling around like fireflies, or a coming vertigo. No, I'm feeling distinctly unwell. Nothing in the world is going to make me stay here, vulnerable as I am. A room is more secure than this.

Every pathway leading towards me suddenly seems like one of those gargoyles could be hiding behind it, waiting to sink fangs into my neck and leech the life out of me.

The door beside me, half open, seems to leer at me, daring me to touch it and open it and reveal the fanged monster beyond. I feel ridiculous, but the terror is real. My wish for dignity goes unanswered - I fall helplessly into the trap of fear, which promptly spawns worry whether the monsters will smell that.

Will they?

With a soft shriek of defiance, all muscles tensing, I kick at the door. It's more half-hearted than I had hoped. It swings open lethargically, revealing what might be a kitchen of sorts. Empty. Of course.

Somehow, the smile of 'Told you so' doesn't want to appear on my face. I feel like I'm going to be ill, or cry, or both. Careful, as not to make a further fool of myself by tripping over my own shoelaces or something equally ridiculous, I step towards and into the room. A narrow band of light from outside is cast by the windows at the far end. I layer my arms across my chest, feeling a chill.

The humour of this is suddenly lost to me entirely. I'm aware I've pushed myself dangerously close to a childish fit of hysterics, but somehow, I don't care. I'm just painfully aware of my neck pulsing in rhythm of my heartbeat.

There's another door at the far end of the room, opening into one running in parallel. I approach, slowly, my muscles almost aching with the anticipation of fleeing. I'd have little to no chance, of course. Speed is something I will never outdo those beasts in. I'd barely outdo the next slowest of the group as a whole if I felt my life depended on it. I studied computer science, I'm not good at sport.

The door is leant against its frame. My gut wrenches all over again, as though this subtly open structure was in any way more problematic than a closed one. They'd both take equally long to open if something wanted to come through and jump at me.

I never believed one could feel physically ill in the stomach from fear, but I'm feeling it lining the edges of my inner organs like a film of poison.

Don't misunderstand me, I'm not really terrified. This is more like a hypersensitive version of the worried unease I've been carrying with myself for months - like a furious, all-consuming variant of something so simple, something annoying. I still have my rational mind. I know I'm okay. I know I'm being silly, even if I can't laugh anymore. It's just reached the point where my stomach is aching because of the tension.

Defiance, again. I lift my right hand and nudge it against the door. Even slower than before, the aluminium door begins to swing open, into the other room, and I step closer awkwardly, angling my head to look at ceiling and walls of what is being revealed to me.

Out of the corner of my eye, something moves.

It's strangely calming - a soft sway of gray shades, far off to the left of me, back from where I came. It's slow, sluggish, lethargic... indecisive? It's seen me, I know that. My shoulders sag quietly, in partial defeat. I'm smart enough to look ahead, but I'm not good at covering my back. I'll have learnt that, should I survive. That fills me with a strange sense of serenity - a numbness, sapping at my mind.

Breathe in, breathe out.

A toneless chirr surfaces from the quiet intruder, like a purr.

I unfreeze, step forward, swirl, and pull the door shut, twisting the key - my saviour, my sweet, sweet saviour - around and locking it behind me, in a single move. The thin door dents deeply, nearly smashing into my nose in the process, and an animal's shriek sounds, angrily. I stumble backwards, and am suddenly aware of my own heartbeat again, thumping faster than ever before, roaring inside me, deafening. I can't even hear my own strangled gasps, and barely note the sound of clattering metal as I collide with unwashes pots, dishes and utensils.

The dent deepens - key aside, some instinct finally kicks in, and there I am, running from the door, staggering, nearly falling out of lack of coordination, flailing more like it, fleeing towards the second door. I utter some cry for help I don't make out myself, but it's a string of words. Perhaps something like: "Ohgodguyscomequicksavemeoneofthosethingsisrightbehindme!"

The word is panic.

I fall out of the second door even as the one I just closed gives way with a sound that is sickening to my ears - the shriek of straining metal coming apart violently, ramming against walls and the floor in loud, obnoxious clatter.

My right hand yanks the door shut. I don't know if it had a key. There's no time for that.

A corridor. Ahead of me, doubledoors, leading out into the concrete courtyard.

Light.

My fingertips touch the doors with a force I'm surprised of, not feeling much of it myself, the doors crashing open, even as the one behind me is torn open and the sound of claws on tiles becomes all too audible...

I nearly run to far, stumbling to a stop near the middle of the courtyard, away from the lone tree in its very center, in the band of sunlight between the wall of where I just came from and the shade of the opposite one. My hands clasp onto my knees. My breath burns in my lungs. I would like nothing more than to collapse right here, sprawling, but I can't risk being reachable. I whirl, nearly knocking myself down in the process.

It bursts pasts swinging doors.

I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be glad that it's not stupid or fearful. It doesn't pounce. It doesn't try to tackle me. Without complaint, it suffers the brief touch of sunlight, and with quiet grace, settles into the shade of the tree. Panting, quietly, looking at me with human eyes.

I've never seen one this close - alive.

Its skin is translucent, a pale white spread tautly across a distorted frame. Its proportions are human - its arms are a touch longer, as one would expect for quadrupedal motions. It's muscles are, in parts, in the wrong place. It walks almost lizard like, elbows and knees pointing outwards. Or perhaps like a bat, with its arms, at least. There are veins and arteries visible, like under fair skin, but so much of them, because all of its skin is fair - all of its skin is almost translucent.

In an unfitting homage to humanity, it's wearing pants. How can that be important? Decency? A fashion statement amongst monsters? A chopped up gasp of laughter escapes me, bitter, cynical, fatalistic. But I'm safe, I'm in the sunlight, and it's clearly not going to come after me. If it planned that, it would have long since grabbed me.

The creature has no hair, and its teeth are sharp, irregular. The lips are identifiably human. Brows exist only as a thin ridge across the eyes - the head seems deformed backwards, skewed, sheared. It's forehead isn't anywhere near vertical, anyway. It has an almost canine snout, but it looks so bizarrely human, so gut-wrenchingly human, despite everything.

I feel insignificant.

A quiet, drawn out hiss, and it rises from its sit, still staring at me. Slowly, it begins to pace, watching me, glancing down to my feet, then back up at my shape, then back down. As it walks into the block shade of the trunk of the tree, I back further from the center of the courtyard, appalled, disgusted, and tangibly afraid. When I feel sufficiently far removed from all shadows, my shoulders sag again, but it feels half-hearted.

This thing knows. It knows that if my friends don't find me, then it's only a matter of time. Well before the sun has set, this island of light will have either dissipated, or, much earlier still, become too narrow to protect me.

I feel another chill, and grab my elbows with my hands, trying to suppress it.

Whispers lose themselves in the silence. "Oh god, guys, please, come quickly..."

My vision blurs. I squeeze my eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners, rolling down my cheeks. Crying? I feel the urge to call myself pathetic to summon strength, but the will fails me.

Why was this apparently a good idea? Everything had gone wrong. Everything that possibly could go wrong had gone wrong. The thought from earlier surfaces, filling me with idle dread - perhaps the others had already been killed. Was I that numb from the events of the past months that I hadn't noticed it? Suddenly, outrage. Why was I the last, then? How was that fair? Couldn't I have been the first, blissfully unaware?

It's still prowling through the shadows, seeming restless. Its muscles ripple under that skin, the glossy, almost amphibian-like texture. It's beautiful, in its own way - not classically, certainly, but its grace is absolute, and it is both too human and too far removed from humanity to be truly appalling. That makes it worse, though - I must hate this creature for what it abstractly represents. I can't hate it for looking hideously ugly. Alien, frightening, but not ugly.

Startled, I utter a cry as it leaps from the shadow of the tree into the geometric shade of the building. I stagger away slightly, to my right, even as I turn to face the creature. I can't let it out of my sight. Who knows what might happen if I don't pay attention?

More pacing.

My stomach feels like it's cramping, twisting itself slowly but surely into a knot. My teeth chatter briefly, jaw shaking. I come to notice and restrain the urge, telling myself off for my cowardice. Somehow, though, I'm still not convinced.

I see it now, I should never have shifted.

In sudden motion, it curls and leaps at me, my paralysed shape well-aimed for. The wind knocks out of me as I grind into the floor, into the shade of the tree. Dull pain spreads across my body and past my shock I'm distantly aware of claws puncturing my upper arms and it hauling me further into the shade, back to under it, forepaws settling on my lower arms near the elbows.

Something in me caves in.

"...please... god, please, don't... don't kill me... don't turn me... don't... just don't..." My voice is flimsy, high-pitched, proof of my defeat even in only its tone. I don't need to try to struggle, the strength pressing against my arms, the perceived weight of the knee against my right thigh, it sends a clear message... I'm nothing. I can't fight this thing off. I haven't the slightest-

"Do you think I chose to be like this?"

You do not argue with a creature you're fairly certain can be classed into the 'monsters' category. Whether its acceptable to be stunned by speech or if that alone is too harsh an insult is hard to say - fact is that my eyes widen. I think it comes across as fear more than anything, though, which was not so far removed from the truth. Something compels me to shake my head - a last shred of common sense?

"Do you kill cows for burgers for fun?"

Even if I wasn't being breathed down on by this hideously strong creature, I wouldn't argue these things. Granted, this very moment, I can't tell the difference, I'm willing to acknowledge anything as long as it gives me more minutes to live, or, best yet, sets me free. Whether I would acknowledge it and agree under other circumstances doesn't cross my mind.

My shoulders ache from having been roughly seized earlier. I utter some distant note of complaint, a sound governed by my subconcious mind. I feel dizzy, removed from my body, and it all feels unreal, as though I would just have to open my eyes and it would all be a dream. My eyes drift closed without that I really notice.

The creature's right paw shifts and it grabs my right hand almost painfully, shifting my arm until it folds upwards slightly, before pushing weight against the fingers of that hand, pinning it into place. My bones grind into the asphalt of the courtyard, aching.

"N-n-n-no..." Speech. In other situations, I might find it in myself to feel proud.

The voice responding to me is still such a fiendish hiss, so alien, but at the same time so easy to understand. It's English, it's not got any nasty accent, and most importantly, it's not just a series of grunts and snarls, though by tone, there is no difference, each syllable dripping with venom. "Then shut up and quit whining."

Teeth scrape the palm of my hand.

Something inside me breaks. I'm not sure what it is - some section of my humanity? A mirror of my musings before - why am I so flawless and healthy, whilst vampires walk amongst us? Why can I walk through sunlight when they can't? Why do I not have to attack those who used to be of my kind? No, no, Neike, your mind is travelling down a dangerous path. You're about to have the life drained out of you, you cannot sympathise with the monster, not without becoming one yourself.

A shallow, low groan surfaces from the depths of me as teeth sink into the flesh of the base of my thumb. It's a furious lash of pain, brief, but it ebbs quickly, becoming, instead, a dull throb travelling up my nerves. I glance up and past the creature, hollow, into the blue sky which laughs down at me with irony.

Tears roll down my cheeks, silent, accompanied only by a series of erratic gasps. I don't feel in control anymore - I don't feel the urge to be in control. I've given up the moment I was pounced. Perhaps I'd even given up the moment I noticed my own stupidity back in the kitchen. I feel horrible, and I feel horrible for feeling horrible.

A grotesque tingle travels through me, radiating outwards from the bite, an uncomfortable sensation across the inside of my arteries and veins. I refuse to think of what it is. I can't bring myself to face it. Something inside me merely thinks 'Please make it quick,' and nothing asks itself why I've been bitten into my hand, rather than my neck. The question doesn't occur to me.

The sensation repeats a few more times, gathering in intensity.

Dizziness sets in.

"...please..." I manage to whisper out, barely audible even to my own ears, futile plea to some shred of civilisation within what this person has become.

You're calling them people again, Neike. You can't do that. We've had this before, it's a dangerous path to walk. It's a dangerous path. Dangerous. Dangerous, very dangerous. Full of danger. My mind spins, fighting fatigue.

The pain flares up again and it takes me a moment to realise I've not been bitten elsewhere. The maw has withdrawn. A broad but thintipped tongue licks across the wound. Tingling. It should hurt. No doubt, it does, but I can't feel that anymore. I'm still in shock. I'm not noticing much of anything, other than the heat of my own body radiating out into the world.

I'm still alive.

The creature's weight shifts, and it grunts. Those eyes stare at me, as though waiting for a comment. I'm not sure which comment it's waiting for - I can't think. I'm just seeing the face, leering down at me, looking irritated, jaw clamped shut-

"You're alive, numbskull."

Yes, I... I think I'd noticed that. What was the- oh. My lips part to speak, but the words don't form, jaw merely trembling disorientedly. I feel like I have a fever. Is it that, then? I'm going to be one of them? My stomach wrenches. "...thank you." I didn't really want to say that, but I daren't argue.

A snort, and it lets go, withdrawing, backing a few steps.

I become distantly aware of my own breathing, an erratic set of gasps and huffs, uncoordinated, chaotic, pitiful, like a wounded animal. Directionless. Pointless.

"...am I...?" I can't finish the question, having neither resolve nor energy to do so.

"No. I don't wish this upon anybody."

My shoulders sag reflexively, only to burn into ache.

Embarrassment.

I've never felt embarrassment run deeper than this. Had any of us ever thought to speak to them? No. We'd assumed they'd lost their speech and all civility. It was an easy assumption to make, in our defence - they weren't exactly a talkative bunch, but I can see why. Try walking up to a human if you look like they do and say, "Excuse me, sir, I'm hungry, can I have some of your blood?"

"...I'm... -m... sorry."

More tears, quiet, of humiliation.

"Fuck that." It shifts against the trunk of the tree, crouching there. "You're not."

"I am!" Sudden emotional fire brings my voice to life, albeit only briefly, simmering down again. "I feel... stupid... I... fuck, how much did you drink?"

No answer.

Then, finally. "Don't sweat it. We're all stupid sometime." It sounds grouchy, though, an almost tangible bitterness, but there's a huff of idle gratitude.

My eyes close - and with the hint of the smile of one redeemed, I give into exhaustion.