Don't Fear The Reaper (12 page)

He explained to Vince what the weapon was – a L86A2 (LSW) assault rifle.
According to Jason it was the standard light weapon support for field officers.
‘Its features,’ he went on, ‘a longer barrel, a bipod and a shoulder strap for
better range and accuracy. It’s equipped with a 30-round magazine. This bad as
mother is capable of high rate accurate fire at ranges of 1,000 meters.’

Along with four hundred calibre bullets, Vince left with the assault
rifle concealed under his jacket and the boxes of ammo bulging out of his
pockets.

At the door Jason said in a sombre tone, ‘If we get through this –
although I don’t see how – I want you to get rid of that. If you’re caught with
it any mention of me and I will make it my last mission to hunt you down and
blow your head apart like a fuckin’ grapefruit. You got that?’

Vince nodded acquiescence and assured Jason if he was caught with it his
name would never be mentioned, not even if they threatened him with life in
prison.

On 23 December 2006 at 11:09pm Vince lay on his grandma’s sofa, tossing
and turning, doing his utmost to get comfortable without turning and falling
onto the living room floor in the process. He’d finished his four cans of
Carling beer and needed another piss. Cussing inwardly, he crept upstairs and
entered the bathroom and emptied his bladder.

Once he’d finished, Vince opted not to flush the toilet as the noise
might wake up Beth, his mother and his grandma. He stepped out of the bathroom
and flicked the light switch off and was consumed by the darkness.

He froze…

At the foot of the stairs Death waited for him to descend. Vince’s vision
became dotted with bright sparks, miniature bolts of lightning. His cheeks
prickled with static as the blood drained from his face. The entity standing
with its broad cloaked back to the door, illuminated only by the chinks of
light creeping through the apertures in the drapes, stood expectantly.

Vince blindly reached out for the banister, gripped it and attempted to
move his trembling legs forward off the landing and onto the top step. He still
wore his socks as his feet protruded the blanket he’d been sleeping under. His
leading left leg slid out beneath him and threatened to topple him. Vince
flailed his hefty arms and managed to clutch one of the spools. His wrist
twisted and the rest of his anatomy pivoted until he found himself on his bum,
sitting on the fourth step down. Pure luck had prevented him from falling, for
he’d not anticipated his current position. Seated on the stairs having sprained
his wrist left Vince in a vulnerable position, if the intruder chose to attack.

Much to his surprise however, the huge shape remained motionless.

Vince’s eyes bugged at the sight of the razor sharp scythe in the
towering figure’s grasp. He knew even in the dimness that the shape wasn’t a
Halloween costume or some kind of special effect. The entity was legitimate.
And had he not seconds ago emptied his bladder Vince didn’t have any qualms
admitting he’d have pissed himself with outright fear.

Nevertheless, as frightened as he was, Vince got to a vertical base and
gingerly came down the stairs. The shape with a hood that concealed its face
indicated that Vince should enter the living room.

The robed figure not of this world or any other for that matter never
spoke, yet Vince Lawton understood its ultimatum it gave him, which made his
mother’s ultimatum gracious and compassionate in comparison.

*

The
bishop of the South Wales district didn’t know a whole lot about guns. He could
distinguish the difference between a pistol and handgun and a rifle from a
machine gun, but that was about as far as his knowledge went. Guns and conflict
went hand in hand. The same went for folks who carried knives. Some stated it
was for protection. However, the bishop was of the opinion that if no one had
access to any firearms then no one would get shot by accident or in cold blood.

When his bulging eyes absorbed the scene before him, he felt his heart
trying to escape into his throat and pop out of his mouth. Nadine whimpered.
Her breathing instantly became erratic and if she didn’t control herself she’d
suffer with palpations.

In front of him his eyes sent a harrowing message to his brain.

Massacre!

The culprit stood wielding a no-nonsense assault rifle held close to his
side fitted to him with a shoulder strap. The ageing bishop flinched when the
first wisps of cordite assailed his flaring nostrils. The weapon-wielding
maniac was built like a brick shithouse. His granite constructed chest heaved
with every breath. Then, pivoting, John fought the suffocating sense of nausea
and trepidation, as the barrel where blue-grey smoke coiled and dissipated into
the air around them was pointed directly at him.

John snatched his hands off the shopping cart and took a couple of steps
backwards. ‘Easy,’ he said in a strained voice. ‘
Easy
.’ He enunciated
the word in a manner of self-defence and prudent advice.

Bloodied carcasses lay sprawled on the linoleum flooring reflecting the
fluorescent lights running across the vast ceiling out of John’s peripheral
vision.

Nadine clutched her heaving bosom with both hands, tears running down her
face, shaking her head, refusing to let in what her eyes had already
registered. ‘No. No. No. No. Please God! Please! Don’t kill us. What’s the
point anyway? W-We’ll be d-d-dead pretty s-soon anyway.’

The murderer’s eyes were bloodshot. His arms looked as though someone had
been pumping air into them they were so swollen. Veins crisscrossed across
sculpted muscles in the triceps and biceps area. In spite of his brain on the
verge of shutting down and permitting John to lose consciousness, he recalled
watching Arnold Schwarzenegger in the 1987 film
Predator
. This gunman’s
arms were stretching the taut flesh. The only difference being Arnold had been
playing the part of the main protagonist whereas this man had the eyes of a
chilling antagonist.

‘S-Son…,’ the bishop began, not at all sure how he was going to proceed,
‘what’ve you done?’ His eyes swept the stained floor where the carcases of
those civilians who had attempted fleeing lay at impossible angles. Some were
bundled on top of each other in their desperate bid to escape with their lives
intact.

Keeping the smoking no bullshit weapon aimed directly at him the gunman
said, ‘They were all infected. Every last one of them. Rodents. Vermin Cretin.’

John blinked away the sweat trickling into his eyes and focused. ‘No,’ he
said, shaking his head. ‘No one is infected. That’s not true. People were
gathering some food and water so they could hole up somewhere safe until the
meteor shower is over. People were scared… terrified. No one was infected.
Please. Please, put down the gun. All my wife and I want is the same as these
poor souls – food and water, that’s all. We’re gonna be in and out. No trouble.
No fuss. Okay?’

The murderer shook his head slowly, in defiance. ‘The fog infected them.
They all went crazy and started killing each other. Families butchered for no
reason, other than pure madness.’

The bishop recalled the news headlines leading up to the eve of Christmas
2006 and had to concur to a certain degree with what the madman stated.
However, he also wanted to get out of here alive and without any injuries. The
taciturn demeanour gave off the aura that of contaminated soul. Lost in the
worst ways one can ever be lost.

‘If that is true – that these folks were in fact, as you said, infected –
then you too must be infected. What you have done is pure madness, wouldn’t you
agree?’

John edged closer past the helpdesk and stood over the threshold relishing
the draught from A/C. His mop of lank, grey hair tickled his damp brow. ‘Listen
to me, friend,’ John said in a soothing voice. ‘Put the weapon down. What
you’ve done is unthinkable, but in these terrible circumstances in time you
might be forgiven. But listen to me and do as I suggest. Enough people have
died this year and today, right here than is necessary. Tomorrow – or whenever
the meteorites strike the planet – more will die again. There’s no need for
this. Really there isn’t.’

The gunman raised the loaded L86A2 and aimed the long barrel directly at
the slightly overweight man edging towards him, hands up in a surrendering
gesture, blinking every time a bead of sweat dribbled into his squished eyes.

John could see the gunman noticing all of these intricate details. When
he got within three, five feet of the gunman and stared fixedly into his
placid, crimson eyes, doing his utmost to plead with his conscience, John
understood in doing so he’d made a fatal error. Knowing it would be his final
breath, he craned his head over his shoulder to his tear-stricken wife. He
committed every aspect of her face and body to memory, feeling the pang of
sorrow punching his jackhammer heart with iron fists of fury. ‘Nadine, run!  RUN!’
he bellowed.

By the time he registered the deafening crack of the gunfire, Bishop John
Hayes’ world had blacked out.

*

Screaming
at the sight of her husband’s form being yanked down by gravity and his jowly
face slapping the unyielding surface, Nadine whirled around and on pure adrenaline
sprinted for the transit.

Either luck or fate had made John leave the keys in the ignition. Nadine
turned them and the motor roared to life. Without any hesitation, she removed
the handbrake, slammed the gearstick from neutral into first and stamped her
foot on the accelerator pedal at the same time bullets punched grey holes into
the bodywork.

Instinctively she kept her head down but not too far that she couldn’t
see over the dashboard. She cried out in vexation and panic when the front left
of the transit clipped the rear left of a Skoda and shattered the brake light.
Numerous bullets dented the bodywork of the rear doors. But now Nadine had put
some distance between herself and the maniacal madman. She shot down the speed
ramp, past the filling station and the car wash and had to brake otherwise
she’d go head on over the roundabout and into the beautifully decorated
flowerbed.

Using her entire bodyweight she steered to the left and raced down the
road through a red light and kept going. She overtook two motorcyclists and
very nearly ended up colliding head-on with a woman driving a Citroen.

As terrified and shaken as she was Nadine rode the main road up the
incline and slowed down when she reached the entrance of the church and
ascended the gravely path, listening to the tyres crushing the stones further
into the macadam.

When she brought the transit to a halt and killed the engine it was then
Nadine screamed at the top of her lungs and cried. She cried and screamed, and
cried and screamed. Nadine didn’t stop until she passed out and she collapsed
against the steering wheel and slumped down on the passenger seat.

*

Vincent
Lawton remained motionless in the Tesco supermarket car park scanning his
surroundings. There was no one in sight. He exhaled through is nostrils,
disappointed that he hadn’t reacted quicker. The woman had escaped.

Still wielding the L86A2 assault rifle, Vince pivoted and ambled back
through the car park into the store. He gagged at the rank stench of spilled
blood. It made him dizzy. It was only after being outside in the fresh air and
then returning that he noticed how awful the pungent smell actually was.

When the old fart suggested that if his theory was in fact true then he
too must be crazy, Vince subconsciously concurred with him. Yet his
debilitating fear of the Grim Reaper was far more intense and insistent. If the
Reaper had specifically asked him to do something Vince would not hesitate. It
wasn’t Death he feared, it was the monstrosity that had greeted him the night
before. Vince didn’t have much knowledge but what he did know without needing a
second opinion was if he didn’t do as the Reaper sought, he’d suffer more than
anyone else would suffer even during the aftermath.

Although another part of his conscience did concur that the people were
mad and that it didn’t really matter anyway. Some would say he was putting them
out of the misery soon to follow. Getting sprayed and torn to shreds by a
fusillade of bullets and dying either instantaneously or shortly after was
better than being struck down and drowning in the oceans flooding the land or
being torched by the falling asteroids.

Lowering himself to his haunches, Vince cocked his head and studied the
sprawled shapes, admiring the art he’d made similar to one admiring and
studying a butterfly collection. There was something quite astonishing and
beautiful in the lifelessness of the dead, stacked helter-skelter.

He leaned over the body of a blonde girl with her hair tied in pigtails
and drew closer, as though he was going to kiss her. Instead he inhaled and
felt something that wasn’t a draught but had the same texture. He performed
this bizarre modus operandi to every person in the store he’d killed. Only then
did Vince realise the scale of the catastrophe he’d induced.

Having worked his way further into the store, moving towards the rear
where the frozen food section was, Vince had no proclivity to feel or show an
ounce of sorrow. He offered no preference to his younger victims or elderly.
They were all equal.

Rather than hear the incandescent white stallion and the old rickety
carriage, Vince’s intuition informed
something
– not someone – had
arrived. He inhaled the remnants of life out of a colleague who wore a navy
blue uniform slumped against the rack of On Sale DVDs: one of his first kills.
Then he rose and headed back down the aisle, stepping over carcasses doing his
utmost to avoid stepping in the crimson puddles and lose his balance.

Vince came to an abrupt halt when he saw the towering, robed figure
standing by the carnations and fruit and salad section. A part of the old Vince
Lawton who had grown up being an obedient, pleasant boy desperately wanted to
possess the fortitude to raise the powerful assault rifle and empty the clip
into the most terrifying entity anyone could have ever imagined – and Vincent
had once been an avid horror movie buff. Until last night, as far as monsters
and spooks hiding under the beds and in the closets were concerned, Vince
sincerely believed he’d become desensitised. Evidently that was not the case.