Spores (2 page)

Alistair switched over the channel as the newsreader announced in a news flash that the infected were now throwing themselves into water supplies and reservoirs.

Mother had been very quiet these past few hours. He remembered hearing her shuffling about and he heard a couple of groans but that was it. He hadn’t checked in on her; there was no way he was going anywhere near that room again.

Five hours of intense television viewing had turned him into a virtual expert on the subject of the infection. Although cold hard facts and unsubstantiated claims often merged into a large grey area, there were a couple of pieces of information that had been established as a certainty.

Infected people were frail and weak and became weaker as the infection ate through their body. Their life span was measured in days. Three weeks was the record so far. A few days before the end, the body began to dry out until, on the last day, the mummified corpse would just burst apart at the slightest vibration.

Vast clouds of the stuff had already been ejected into the atmosphere; some parts of Britain had not seen sunlight in over a week.

That wasn’t happening to Mother, she was something different. The welt started to itch. Mother was something new.

He stood up and padded over to the kitchen window whilst absently scratching away at his cheek. Alistair failed to notice that the scum-covered water in the sink was now choked with tiny black mushrooms.

It was a little murky outside but Alistair could still make out the shapes of a couple of boys playing. He grinned to himself, then noticed that his hand had been enthusiastically digging into his face. He stopped; his hand came away covered in blood and what appeared to be bits of black mushroom. He then saw the state of the sink. Had he put his hand in there? He couldn’t remember.

Alistair pushed away his troubling concerns as a new and exciting thought broke his mind’s surface. Now that mother was otherwise occupied, he could do what he wanted, for the first time in his life he was a free man.

Both his legs had begun to itch. He shook his head; a little itch wasn’t going to stop him. Alistair hurried into the hallway to fetch his coat and hat. He looked at the front door and grinned; he couldn’t wait to say hello to those kids outside.

Alistair ran to the door, not noticing that his fingernails were back on his cheek, ripping through the dry, papery skin to reveal oily, black flesh.

Chapter One

It looked like a disk of cold, melted cheese. Dustin Fletcher grinned; he liked that comparison, or maybe hot bubbling mud or even ocean waves frozen in time. Hell, he could go on forever here, he was in a poetic mood. He carefully stepped over the uneven depression left in the concrete slab. Careful was his word of the day. Well it was now anyway. There was no way in the seven levels of hell that he could drop this bottle, this one would finally complete his sculpture.

Until he’d stood up a few seconds ago, Dustin didn’t think he was that drunk, oh he knew his rational reasoning had buggered off to visit his Aunt Mary but he didn’t think that Mr. Balance had fucked off with the fat bitch as well.

Dustin looked down at the tattered skater boot barely covering his left foot and commanded it not to move. “You’re like a moon boot dude, like magnetic or fucking something.”

With the foot securely anchored, he counted to three and swung his other foot over. He nodded, pleased at overcoming his challenge of the day, and wondered if that pool of weird acid shit in the middle of the crater was still active. He’d crapped himself yesterday when the branch he’d dipped in had just burst into flames.

He knew where it had come from, oh yeah he knew all right. The moaners and their little companions were moving about again, it didn’t take a genius to guess that yet another bunch of survivors had made the mistake of entering the city centre. Dustin looked down at what was left of his human visitor, a piece of purple t-shirt, blackened at the edge and a bleached white jawbone. Dustin made a mental note to say bunch minus one from now on.

The moaners must be having a whale of a time, hunting down the new humans. Dustin guessed that it must be like when you give your pet cat a toy mouse to play with. He slowly shook his head from side to side wondering if any of the new additions, minus one, would be still be alive by this time tomorrow. He’d bet that the answer to that one was likely to be none of them. Dustin had discovered some time ago that the moaners were very good hunters.

He shivered, wondering what that moaner’s victim must have thought when he’d stumbled over the sleeping form of old Dustin during the night. He wondered why he hadn’t tried to bring him out of the land of nod. He suddenly looked back at the boxes he’d shoved under the park bench. Maybe that sneak was trying to rob him.

He’d have to check through his gear, just in case he was right about Mr. Purple t-shirt rifling through his cardboard boxes before bumping into one of the moaners. Of course, that would have to wait for a minute. He glanced at the beer bottle in his hand before he tiptoed through the minefield of empty bottles.

This one was the keystone or keybottle that finished off his magnificent creation. He placed this bottle in the middle and hurried back to his bench to admire it from afar.

“I name you Bottlehenge and may all the micro druids in this diseased and fucked up land find you and worship here.”

Dustin climbed onto the bench and saluted, the spore clouds weren’t so thick today so he could even make out the back of the shopping mall overlooking the city park. Dustin slowly counted the bottles that made up the four concentric circles in Bottlehenge; it did look pretty fucking cool, even if he said so himself. It had taken him over a week to construct.

This was so unfucking cool. No matter what he did to this bloody guitar, he just couldn’t get it to sound like the one he’d left behind in the now famous exodus. Dustin laughed aloud. He would have written a song about that journey if he could stop this useless piece of modern crap sounding like an old washboard.

Dustin dropped the instrument onto the wet grass. He knew that he should have swiped the guitar he liked instead of going for the most expensive one.

“Perhaps I should have taken both.”

He could always take it back and demand a refund. A quiet giggle escaped from his mouth. Dustin looked down at the guitar, “Stupid modern piece of shit.”

“I wish I still had my old guitar. I should have stayed in Huddersfield, for all the good it did me.”

Dustin sighed, he felt the euphoria slipping away like a paid up whore. He bent forward, waited a moment for his equilibrium to catch up and picked out another bottle from his rapidly diminishing supply. Dustin prised the cap off with his teeth and took a tentative sip. Considering that he’d never heard of the make, it didn’t taste too bad, weak as piss but what else did he expect? He had supped all the strong stuff a few days ago.

He stopped in mid gulp when a mournful cry echoed through the silent city. Was that another human or a moaner? It was difficult to tell, not that it was his problem; it was unlikely they’d call in on good old Dustin. He quickly stood up and looked around the city park, just in case. He wasn’t in the mood for any more visitors today, or any day for that matter, unless they were female of course. He swigged back the beer, while keeping his eyes and ears open for any signs of movement.

Dustin fell back on the bench, and dropped the bottle on the grass, suddenly remembering that he was going to check his possessions, Dustin leaned over and pulled out the thick cardboard box, noticing that the wet grass was turning the bottom of his box into wet mush. Dustin knew that he should have picked up a plastic box instead. He removed a tin of peaches and a tin of stewed steak first, that would do for his dinner, and then counted everything else. It seemed to be all there. He hadn’t really thought that his visitor would have stolen anything and even if he had, it’s not as if he’d managed to get very far.

Dustin looked down at his dinner; he didn’t want to eat anything but it just wasn’t an option, he needed to eat to continue drinking. Keeping his mind nice and foggy was the ultimate priority; it stopped him from mulling over his situation, his immediate future and most importantly, the beer blunted his urges.

He thanked the Gods of karma yet again for the invention of the ring pull can and dug into his tasteless dinner. As he was licking gravy off his fingers, he heard another cry. That one was definitely human. Dustin threw the half eaten tin behind him and reached for the peaches; it was uber weird at how blasé he become these past few days at the sound of another soul running from a moaner. He shrugged to himself.

“Whatever.”

Peach flavoured gravy was yummy but what he really craved was a fresh banana, but he knew that the chances of him ever seeing one of those lovely yellow crescent shaped fruits in the flesh, so to speak, was very unlikely; weird, really. Dustin never really bothered with eating fruit before the whole world had turned to shit.

The screaming voice closed in on his location, God, just how irritating was Mr. Noisy? Where was that fucking moaner? Those things were just like buses, there were never any around when you really needed one.

“For crying out loud, will you shut the fuck up!” he shouted. “You’re putting me off my dinner!”

Dustin pushed a peach segment into his mouth then licked his fingers once more. If he had a straw at least then he could put his fingers in his ears. Maybe he’d show a little more empathy if he knew that the screamer was female. Fat chance of that happening though, he knew for a fact that the Institute had rounded them all up at the beginning of the outbreak, at least, that’s what they’d told him.

He threw the other tin onto the grass beside the guitar and reached for another beer. Thinking about the Institute sobered him up.

It was their fault that he was in this fucking situation in the first place; he thought he’d landed on his feet when he got in with that crowd. His own room, two hot meals every day and best of all, the place was just crawling with hot nubile girls, all desperate for a slice of Dustin love. Debra, Adele, Patsy, Jennifer, he’d lost track of the other names after the first couple of days. God, he’d been like a dog with two dicks until someone, no doubt some uncool breadhead jealous of his virility, had complained to the powers that be. He couldn’t believe it when the sad fuckers had cast him out like Jesus; he was surprised that the fuckers hadn’t tried to stone him either. Apparently, trying to repopulate the human race single-handed was bad form. He drained the bottle and threw that one down too, then picked up another.

“Bastards!” he shouted, “You’re all bastards.”

Dustin drained the bottle, burped, then threw it as hard as he could over the wrought iron fence; he watched it disappear into the mist before a couple of seconds later, it smashed. He grinned savagely as a car alarm competed for dominance with the shrieking man.

Bottlehenge and his next creation could go fuck themselves now, God he was mad. Dustin needed something a lot stronger than beer. There must be somewhere in the fair city of Leeds where he could score some dope. What a complete bummer, he so wished that he was back in Huddersfield, he still had a baggie under his mattress.

How long would it take him to walk home from here? Two, maybe three hours tops. He attempted to work out just how long he’d been here, at least a week, that was for sure. It was difficult to tell, as some days, the spore cloud had been so dense he couldn’t tell whether it was day or night.

“Over a week without a shag.”

Dustin looked at his remaining bottles in disgust; would he still be doing this in five years or even ten? He tried to imagine a thousand bottlehenge creations scattered around the city, he tried to imagine ten years without being able to caress a beautiful woman, or any woman for that matter. He stood up and waited for his balance to catch up with him before taking a couple of steps away from the park bench that had been his home for the past few days,

Well it was. The nice lady dropped him off right outside that off licence and as his karma had just been shot to fuckery, he just had to have a beer or five to get his emotions away from those jagged peaks. Ironic, considering it was beer that put him in this position in the first place.

It seemed like the way distant past now. The world outside had gotten mega trippy. Bad karma had begun to spoil even Dustin’s relatively calm persona. Folks in the commune where he had been currently hanging out were getting sick and dropping like flies. He’d taken the momentous decision to get the hell out of Dodge and move back in with his mum on the other side of town.

He figured that all this drama would be over in a few days and everything would get back to normal. All that spaced out optimistic bullshit flew right out of the window when Dustin had finally arrived back home. He’d found his only relative lying on the bed, or at least what was left of her. There was just a matt black covering of dust in her shape on the bedspread; he’d assumed that the rest of her was floating around the bedroom, which probably accounted for why it had been so cloudy in there.

Dustin had of course taken the correct procedure. He had run down the stairs and cracked open the first of many bottles of beer he found in the bottom of the fridge. His mum always kept the fridge stocked up with his favourite brands just in case her only son, on the rare occasions that he did, came to visit her.