The Rot (Post Apocalyptic Thriller) (9 page)

The bridge… I had to get to the bridge. I couldn’t be that far away from it, either. I had to be nearly there, had to be…

Then I saw it, like a mirage in the desert – the way out. I coaxed more speed from the car, shrugging off any stragglers I’d picked up along the way that might be slowing me down. There was a cloud of dust and smoke hounding me now as well, from the felled buildings, threatening to overtake me and make me blind again. The ground was still shaking as I revved the engine and made it up and onto the bridge. Looking back I saw the cracks outrun the dust, starting to creep onto the bridge itself.

“Bollocks!” I hissed through my teeth.

If the bridge went at that end, I’d definitely go with it. There were no more affected attached to the car anymore, and I couldn’t see any behind me for the plumes – but I could still only go so fast.

I was almost halfway across by the time the bridge started to collapse. I felt the car begin to tilt, nose upwards, but could do nothing except carry on and hope for the best. The car’s engine was protesting, but I pushed it further – praying the momentum would get me across. It wasn’t like the movies, where I could do some sort of stuntman leap to get me over. This was more of a leap of faith, if anything.

By the time I was almost at the other side, the car was on an incline and the bridge was rapidly disintegrating behind me. If I made it over, at least none of the affected would be chasing me – those who’d crawled out of the rubble, anyway. I admit, I closed my eyes for the final push – waiting for gravity to drag me backwards, and for the car to fall into the river below. And it was quite a fall: maybe not enough to kill me outright, but I had no idea how deep the water was, or whether I’d be able to swim out from the wreckage even if I survived the drop.

In the end, I didn’t have to find out. When I opened my eyes again, I was on the other side – the collapse of the bridge having stopped just shy of my side. I was on an even keel now, heading on up the road and away from the bridge… from the town itself. The more distance I put between it and me the better – and when I looked in the mirror again, all I could see was death and destruction.

That, although I didn’t really know it at the time, would be the theme for this new world. They would be my constant companions on my journey, and the predators always at my back.

Stop.

CHAPTER FIVE

Record:

Been a week or so since my last entry, and the other night I listened to the previous couple – as I tend to do, picking up the thread again. But my Lord, what state of mind must I have been in when I signed off…? All that poetic crap about death and destruction, like they were people. They’re not. They’re just a way of… I was going to say way of life, but there’s very little about the world around me that’s
living
any more. Existing, maybe; no more than that. Going backwards, definitely.

It’s been a week, because not only did I want to put in a good bit of travelling in during that time, I also couldn’t face telling any more of the story. Got me down to be honest… Ha – got me down… What exactly gets me
up
these days? And I mean that literally, in that I find it a real struggle to get myself moving and on the road again in the mornings.

But anyway, my problem – and I do need to carry on with this. It might even help get things straight in my head; might help me figure out the ‘why’ of it all. Move on, as I’ve said, not just physically but mentally as well. So, here we go again. I’ve found an isolated spot, with good visibility in every direction; it’ll do until I’ve finished with the next leg of the journal anyway.

We’d got to the bridge, hadn’t we; the escape from that town. I managed to put a fair few miles between me and that shit-hole before the car started to splutter, then eventually break down. Wasn’t fuel – because again, like the chopper, according to the gauge I had almost a full tank – so it must have been wear and tear. Couldn’t really blame it, I suppose – I’d put it through its paces back there. Still, it would leave me stranded out in the middle of nowhere once more. Not a bad situation given the alternative, of being back in an urban environment with potential killers around every turn, but I wondered if I could get
that
moving and on the road again. My little joke…

Now, I don’t know much beyond the basics of engines. I can drive, I can fly, but what keeps those machines ticking is very much beyond me. Used to watch the engineers back in my Air Force days, flitting about, seeing to the maintenance of those planes and helicopters. They were like magicians, some of them, could make each part do wonders… Or like conductors in an orchestra, encouraging each section to work and make the whole thing produce the sweetest of music. And there we were, abusing their darlings – treating them so badly. Bit like in real life, I suppose; the aircraft even had female names.

Point is, I would have given anything for someone on that deserted road who knew one end of a carburettor from the other. Wasn’t as if I could just get the AA on the phone to come out and give me a tow – more’s the pity. The AA had probably by now killed one other or screwed themselves senseless. I had to face the fact that I was on my own, and if I was to fix the Ford I was going to have to learn on the job. Might just be something as simple as a fan belt, in which case I could probably find something to replace it with… but where was a good old-fashioned stocking when you needed one?

I popped the bonnet and climbed out to take a look. Lifting it and securing it, I took a gander at the engine itself – and immediately saw what the problem was. In spite of how new the paintwork on the car appeared, what was keeping it running – or not, as the case turned out to be – was dotted with rust. A
kind
of rust, at any rate – coppery in colour, flaky and patchy, it reminded me a little of the mould at some of the hostels I’d stayed in during my adventures abroad. I reached out and prodded a piece that was coating the motor. My fingers brushed it and I watched as it crumbled under my touch – leaving a small hole in the casing. I might not have known that much about engines, but I knew I wasn’t going to be fixing this one in a hurry; I was lucky it had got me off that bridge, let alone this far.

Except now that I stepped away from under the bonnet, I saw patches on the car’s side of that same stuff – originating from the tyre well. There were a few more spots towards the back on the flank as well. I stood there and frowned. Everything had happened in a bit of a rush, especially after the affected began congregating to chase after me – that kind of mass panic mode Carrie had talked about in the cellar – but I could have sworn the rust hadn’t been there when we set off. I’d chosen the car specifically because it looked like it would get me away from town; as fast as possible, in fact – that and it happened to start, of course. So what…?

Something began to spark in my mind: a recollection. But I didn’t have time to think about it, to piece things together – not at that time.

Largely because of the birds…

I heard the things before I even saw them, though Christ knows how; there were so many. You just get used to birdsong, tune it out, but the racket they were making was something else. All weirdly out of tune; squawking more than singing. Some sounded as if they were in pain, others like they were laughing – and there were so many of the buggers when I looked up. They were like a big black cloud in the sky, but moving too quickly; not taking their time like clouds drifting across the horizon. The closer they came, the more I could see that they were made up of different types and sizes – birds who would never normally flock together at all: blackbirds with sparrows; pigeons and starlings… The way they were flying was erratic, too. Some were striking each other in mid-air, knocking their neighbours out of the way, or pecking at them.

Then they banked. It wasn’t fluid, wasn’t like those displays the Red Arrows used to put on that Dad would take me to see – fuelling my interest in all things aircraft-related – but clumsy and haphazard, like trying to turn a horse-drawn cart too quickly. I watched all this, puzzled, then realised the banking was growing steeper – that the flock was heading in my direction. It still took me a few moments to shake myself out of my stupor – part of me wanting to carry on observing, another part screaming that I needed to get the hell out of there right now!

By the time I’d started moving, the birds were already dive-bombing. Some crashed into the ground not far from me, some struck the car – just as I was ducking down to use it as a shield. They hit the vehicle with such force it was like shells punching into it, smashing glass and metal alike. Several flew straight down into the roof, then through it on impact. Down they plummeted, but they also began to fly around me, circling the car to peck, to stab at me. The combination of my clothes and the SKIN protected me from the worst of it, but there were just so many to fight off. I managed to get the car door open, slide across and grab the rifle and my bag. I laid down a spray of bullets – but when I got out of the car and stood upright, I just waved the weapon back and forth like a mad woman with a broom, batting at cobwebs.

Hitchcock had nothing on these bastards, I tell you. They didn’t care whether they lived or died – as the Kamikaze ones still raining down proved. All they wanted was to attack me, to cause as much havoc as they possibly could. Through the flurry of wings and beaks, I spotted a wood in the distance. They’d follow me, no doubt, but if I made it to the trees I’d at least have more cover than I had standing there.

So, shouldering the backpack and gun, I put up my arms as a barrier and ran. I ploughed through them, just as I had with the affected and the car in town. But I soon realised that these poor creatures were just as messed up as the humans back where I’d come from, just as corrupted by whatever it was that had done this.

Visibility was worse than it had been when that guy had landed on my windscreen, or when the dust cloud was chasing me to the bridge. Only this time I felt more exposed, if that makes sense, regardless of the fact I still had some protection – I was enclosed inside a different kind of bubble, not of metal but of the SKIN’s making. That run seemed to take forever, with birds crashing into me from behind, from in front and above. It would only have taken one to drop dead centre on me, and I’d have been done – but I kept on moving, heading forwards, heading onwards. Until I finally reached the treeline.

I almost ran slap-bang into the trunk of one tree, in fact – only at the last moment diving sideways and letting my feathered ‘friends’ have that privilege. The further into the wood I went, the less the birds followed me. Then, at last, when it felt like I was never going to be rid of them, or would run out of trees in the process, they were gone – almost as suddenly as they’d appeared in the first place.

Leaning back against a trunk, I slumped down and got my breath back. I couldn’t even assume I was safe out here in the countryside now; absolutely anything could turn against me. And I saw that again when I came out of the woods, spotting a couple of cows in a nearby field that were butting heads in a fight to the death. I couldn’t help thinking of that disease in the late twentieth century, how people had been so scared of meat from ‘mad’ cows in case it infected them. These were the real deal, and it made me wonder if perhaps all this had happened because of contaminated food or drink instead of being carried in the air? Or maybe it had mutated from that? It was pointless to speculate, but I wanted –
needed
– answers, and I wasn’t about to get them out there.

As I trudged away from the trees, avoiding insane livestock, I kept turning to look up at the sky in case those birds found me again and I needed to break for more cover. Didn’t happen, though, and it wasn’t long before I saw a farm in the distance – probably the one that the cows belonged to. I headed off that way, figuring it was worth checking out. Maybe I’d find more people who hadn’t been plagued by the psychosis, but mostly it was because the sky was darkening, about to rain, and I wanted somewhere to shelter – silly really, because I couldn’t even get wet; but then a lot of mental hang-ups were still left from before the time I put on the SKIN. Still are.

The property looked deserted – perhaps it had been before all this, because I saw it was quite run down the nearer I got.
Falling down
might have been a more accurate description, especially for the outhouses and barns, and I had a flashback to those buildings in town that had toppled because of the craters, because of the cracks in the road. We don’t get earthquakes much in this country; extremely rare. And never ones which do that kind of damage. Was it just a coincidence it had happened around the same time as the madness, or something more? My mind was still racing; I needed to rest.

The farmhouse itself looked like the best bet out of the lot; built from stone, it appeared stable enough. The door was open, so I went inside – gun raised in case of trouble. I moved through the kitchen, through the hall, then into the living room – where I found an old man sitting in a chair. Damn, he looked so much like Dad, that guy. Even more so because he’d clearly died there and no-one had come looking. No bottles of milk for the neighbours to see; no neighbours for miles, come to that. He’d just passed away and was rotting, skin grey and mottled, head back and his mouth wide.