Fatal Cure - (Index)

This is the old version of the story. Use "Sam At The End Of The World" link for latest version.
Chapter 1 --- Chapter 2 --- Chapter 3 --- Chapter 4
Chapter 5 --- Chapter 6 --- Chapter 7 --- Chapter 8
Chapter 9 --- Chapter 10 -- Chapter 11 -- Chapter 12
Chapter 13 -- Chapter 14 -- Chapter 15 -- Chapter 16
Chapter 17 -- Chapter 18 -- Chapter 19 -- Chapter 20
Chapter 21 -- Chapter 22 -- Chapter 23 -- Chapter 24
Chapter 25 -- Chapter 26 -- Chapter 27 -- Chapter 28
Chapter 29 -- Chapter 30 -- Chapter 31 -- Chapter 32
Chapter 33 -- Chapter 34 -- Chapter 35 -- Chapter 36
Chapter 37 -- Chapter 38 -- Chapter 39 -- Chapter 40
Chapter 41 -- Chapter 42 -- Chapter 43 -- Chapter 44
Chapter 45 -- Chapter 46 -- Chapter 47 -- Chapter 48
Chapter 49 -- Chapter 50 -- Chapter 51 -- Chapter 52
Chapter 53 -- Chapter 54 -- Chapter 55 -- Chapter 56
Chapter 57 -- Chapter 58 -- Chapter 59 -- Chapter 60
Chapter 61 -- Chapter 62 -- Chapter 63 -- Chapter 64
Chapter 65 -- Chapter 66 -- Chapter 67 -- Chapter 68
Chapter 69 -- Chapter 70 -- Chapter 71 -- Chapter 72
Chapter 73 -- Chapter 74 -- Chapter 75 -- Chapter 76
Chapter 77 -- Chapter 78 -- Chapter 79 -- Chapter 80
Chapter 81 -- Chapter 82 -- Chapter 83 -- Chapter 84
Chapter 85 -- Chapter 86 -- Chapter 87 -- Chapter 88
Chapter 89 -- Chapter 90 -- Chapter 91 -- Chapter 92
Chapter 93 -- Chapter 94 -- Chapter 95 -- Chapter 96
Chapter 97 -- Chapter 98 -- Chapter 99 -- Chapter 100
Chapter 101 - Chapter 102 - Chapter 103 - Chapter 104
Chapter 105 - Chapter 106 - Chapter 107
The End - A word from the Author.

Fatal cure - Epilogue

Thank you to all who have read and enjoyed my first effort at a serial novel. The post-apocalypse theme is a favourite of mine, and one I’ve wanted to properly explore for some time. I hope I've articulated my vision into words adequately.

The ‘Parasites’ need a better name. I had theorised that the invasion happened so quickly there wasn’t time to officially name them. I attempted to classify various stages of evolution and function with names such as ‘Creep’, ‘Crawly’, ‘Host’ . I figured isolated communities would invent their own names such as ‘Gloomers’.

And I know the media would have dreamed up some memorable tags within hours of the outbreak.

A special thanks to everyone who asked questions, pointed out broken links, and led me down paths I may never have taken without your input.

Having errors in my work is my pet hate. It really interferes with the flow of a story. Your mind hits a spelling mistake like a speed-bump. It takes a moment to recover momentum and get lost in it again. So I send special thanks to those of you who picked up my slips and omissions. Some, (less secure), writers may not appreciate this, but I for one, love readers who take the time and effort to do so.

The words ‘For Now’ leaves the story open for a sequel. I have many ideas and even a few pages already written, but I would like to complete a bunch of short stories first. Something in me feels a need to be published and paying my way around here.

Michael Cooper

P.S. I'm really sorry about using word verification to leave a comment but I'm getting slammed by spam. I will make it as easy as possible to access comments as better methods arise.

I have just kicked off a new offering as SAM IN 'A BETTER WORLD' (SIABW). Please join me as I torture him again.

(Fatal Cure - Index)

Fatal Cure - Chapter 107

(Index)

Many sweaty hours are spent each day in our tranquil little park. I build, plant, water and dig. The hardest work I’ve done in months stretches and tears flabby muscles, which are instantly soothed by chemical affection. Daily exhaustion is absolved by blackouts.

I visit the roof often to watch the skies. If I’m not too wrecked I scan the heavens with supplemented Sight. On the occasions it can’t be coaxed out, my imagination twists cloud formations and shades of light into evil fiends.

All observations are equally worrying.

Fright at the single black tendril streaking azure skies is diluted by time passing. But then a second thin stain crawls from the northern horizon on a southerly heading. Over consecutive days it spears high above us and collides at right angles, stabbing its twin amidship. They commune for a time before the head of the second tendril continues on its southerly journey.

I gape up at the axis of the giant, pencil-thin X they leave in the sky. It is, very nearly, directly overhead.

********************

The completion of the garden project is defined by the limits of my skill. I waste the best part of a day picking up individual leaves and hiding them under bushes. Pitiful, cowardly delaying tactics.

The hardest part is next - weathering Kristine’s hate and sorrow when I request her presence down here.

Several wheelchairs lie about the building, left awry from past, drunken episodes. I’d careened through the corridors, crashing into things, giggling like a school-girl.

One of them is destined to return to less mirthful duties.

A reasonably unbent chair is nominated and sent to our floor via the shunned lift. Stair climbing eats a reserve of energy saved for the task ahead.

Upstairs I slump into the delivered wheelie and take a brief time-out, chewing tiny measures of chemical strength. I roll myself to the heavy Staff Quarters door and fight an unnecessarily handicapped battle with the cantankerous closer instead of getting up.

Kristine is incurious about my clattering, swearing entry. She remains parked on the couch, staring sightlessly at the sleeping baby who slips precariously between slack thighs.

Kristine’s dulled senses are rooted in the sedative offerings I leave out each morning. The pills disappear when I turn my back and the fast-acting ingredients prevent a retreat to her room. This development is encouraged. I hold her attention by playing a constant loop of kiddie DVDs. The TV’s cheerful childishness is a stop-gap measure, alleviating an unbearable, ticking silence between us.

I’m drawn to the TV’s bright flaring colours and watch plastic characters joyfully solve minor upsets. A female’s soft, slow and mournful voice croons from stereo speakers. An incongruous soundtrack to accompany outrageous hyperbole.

This is partially my fault for not checking the suitability of albums in the stacker.

At least she’d got it together enough to turn it on. I’d thought this action beyond her.

I begin my advance.

“I’ve made something for you.”

“All you make are messes.”

My objectionable presence alone is enough to provoke bitter words. She will not tolerate me speaking to her as well. Instant tears glitter in dark-ringed eyes as she grapples with the child and stands unsteadily, ready to withdraw from my sight.

I’m ready for this tactic.

Holding a baby is an encumbrance I can use to my advantage. Totally deluded by my past abhorrence of raising a hand against her, Kristine is shocked when I unexpectedly, and firmly, take her by the shoulders. Steering her backwards we cross the few steps to the wheelchair without tripping. She falls into the seat with a short scream and I wrap the restraining belt around her waist, securing it behind the chair.

“Owww! What are you doing? Don't touch me, you pig! I’m not going anywhere with you!”

“Just this once, you’re going to do as I say.”

Before she can think to kick me in the nuts, I move out of range.

“C’mon, let’s get some sunshine.”

She sighs, too depressed and confused to argue further. She's occupied by cuddling and shushing the baby, who howls in objection to our jostling, while I wheel them into the lift and press the ground floor button.

I sprint downstairs when the doors clunk together. Puffing, I reach the ground floor, turning on the speed when I hear the ‘ding’ of arrival. The doors open then begin to close again. I’m only just quick enough to get a hand between them, slapping the safety buffer. I hear Kristine furiously mashing the ‘Close’ button a few more times anyway.

The doors retract and she greets my cheery grin with a scowl.

“Gotta be quicker than that, sister.”

Another deep sigh of resignation and she surrenders to whatever lunacy I have in store. I push them along the corridor, risking an epileptic fit by speeding past blocks of afternoon sun slanting through security-meshed windows.

We reach the garden. I slow to allow Kristine’s muddled brain to take in the weld-mesh arch I’d constructed to frame the entrance. Flowering vines, planted from seed, are as yet spindly shoots poking from the ground and are sadly bereft of the bouquets depicted on the packet.

I note her head movements and choose to believe she appreciates the intended transformation. We move on. Crushed gravel crunches beneath the chair’s wheels and we pass by a line of whatever flowering shrubs I could find around the place. The result is mismatched, yet pleasing in its waist-high, hacked symmetry.

We reach the focal point.

A bark chip strewn mound of dirt in the middle of the lawn, surrounded by youthful trees of eventual shade. Some have been kind enough to open early buds for the occasion after heavy applications of fertilizer.

Using my foot, I surreptitiously brush a few leaves from the Mint plants that skirt the mound. The fresh scent almost covers the animal stink of blood and bone fertilizer.

That scruffy little pine I’d risked all to bring back limply takes pride of place atop the pile. A commemorative plaque, pried from the building’s entrance, is propped at the foot of the tree.

A single word is welded into metal that glows in afternoon sunlight.

SHANNA.

Took me several goes to get that right. I don’t think the grinder marks are noticeable where I’d forgotten to include the second ‘N’.

Kristine stares, struck dumb and stilled.

Unable to emulate her frozen state I impatiently tap fingers on the chair's handles and kick the tyres.

I’m not very good at waiting.

“Well, is it alright?”

She hands me the baby and tries to rise. I tuck the kid under one arm and unsnap her lap belt. Slowly she moves to the plaque, running a delicate finger across the lettering. Tears fall, one after another, splashing on the burnished steel. A hand lifts to caress the pine needles of the stunted tree and a small wail escapes her.

I am confident she doesn’t need its significance explained.

“Oh, Sam. It’s so...beautiful, so...perfect.”

She smiles through the tears. For the first time since she’d left to find Shanna I am viewed without hate, fear, or madness muddying her features. She cries; gasping and cupping hands to an anguished face. Her body language asks me to hold her, but I don't move, fearing a misinterpretation.

My throat tightens and both eyes mist. Bloody hell, I’m about to start bawling too. She sees my pain and runs to me. The massive gap between us closes and my heart implodes.

We sob together, clinging as though we’d never let go. Forgiveness leaks from her, one tear at a time.

The baby ruins the moment by wailing her own upset at being squashed between us. Kristine shyly eases away from me to comfort the kid. I reach out to hold her hand and pat the child’s downy head.

We stand at Shanna’s grave, entrenched in our impenetrable thoughts until the light fades.

*******************

I’m only on sleeping pills now. The child grows, thriving on the love of a good woman and the teasing of a not-so-good man.

Kristine and I remain on speaking terms, though the exchanges are strained. Explaining what happened to me after Shanna’s death is not handled well. Her nervous glances at my pill bottles or the glass in my hand speak the volumes of incredulous disbelief she refuses to voice. Exasperated by her motherly patience my thoughts are scattered. Each time the tale comes out in indigestible chunks and halting misremembrances until I wind down to a guilty silence.

She raises an eyebrow particularly high at the part my psychic abilities played. I compound the unlikely nature of this claim by waving arms vigorously to prove the existence of the Parasite fog. I’ve noticed it thickening by the day, refuelling my shield’s sickly glow. I strain every fibre of my being to generate the same change inside Kristine’s mind without success.

“What are you doing? Why are you scrunching your face up like that? Are you constipated?”

The experiment is aborted.

“No I’m trying to... ahh, forget it.”

********************

The third Parasite thread takes longer to arrive, but I have been vigilant; half-expecting its appearance. The tendril streaks another dark line across the sky, halving one quadrant as it joins the X’s locus a week later.

I keep the disturbing, unprovable information to myself.

The dearth of Creeps around our broken-fenced home is reversed around the time a fourth tendril slices the sky into smaller pie wedges. I believe the nest I destroyed is being triangulated by other nests. The incoming, road weary Creeps I begin to see on the highways, and in my lucid dreams, are the scouts of a larger Army, seeking answers.

We are hunted.

But this time I have a weapon that can hurt them.

And, if I can’t run away, I will fight them to my last breath.

The End... for now.

Fatal Cure - Chapter 106

(Index)

...an awakening thunders over sleep’s tranquility, bringing with it harsh reality. Consciousness rejects it again and again, returning me to deep slumber until the inactive brain grows bored. I am attacked by signals of bodily needs. Pains I haven’t the fortitude to ignore chew holes in soft slumber.

“Uhhhhhhh.”

Groaning scuffs at a tongue drier than the Sahara Desert. Each breath aggravates a basketball-sized bladder. A cooling dampness beneath me indicates at least one impatient release has occurred.

Boy, something smells rank in here! Worse than urine.

Opened eyes fill with crumbled sand from caked eyelids. I blink rapidly in semi-darkness and find I’m enveloped by a bed-sheet. Someone still cares enough to cover me. Or is it a wishful shroud?

Pain cavorts, stabbing my prone body, like stick-wielding hyperactive children on a sugar high.

The whole idea of getting up is all too hard.

I will a return to the Land of Nod. Just before the impossible is achieved I sense someone sneaking into the room. An adrenaline rush ruins sleep’s seduction for good.

“I know you’re awake.”

An emotionally distant voice speaks above me, nasal with blocked sinuses and dulled by anti-depressants.

“Uuuuuuhhhhhhh.”

“Where’ve you been...you foun’ a baby...?

“Uhh...”

“Whaddeva. Don’ wan to talk to you ever again anyway... Just ged up an’ shower...you stink!”

The bedroom door slams.

What’s her problem? She used to hide her contempt and disgust.

Maybe she’s got her period.

Why does she sound drugged? She doesn’t usually take drugs.

Oh wait. Yeah, now I remember. I’d knocked her out so I could kill Shanna. And then I’d left a few pills to get her through instead of being there for her.

Thinking about these events too deeply might reveal the scumbag I really am to myself.

So I don’t.

The upshot is; I won’t be nursed through my pains.

Probably be cooking my own breakfast too.

The bending and twisting involved with rising from my filthy bed is accompanied by cracks, pops and groans from a torture-porn movie. Gravity must have tripled. The looser parts of me droop towards the floor. I stand, sagging like a stringless marionette, except for one part holding back the contents of a pressurised bag of urine.

The urge is unstoppable. I rush the last few steps to the shower stall, releasing a painfully strong yellow stream on the way. Twisting taps sends freezing, then scalding water over an overcompensating hand.

I dial a groan up and down my throat beneath the shower’s fullest pressure. Loose dirt and Parasite faeces erode from me until finally a brush is needed to scrub the last of it away.

The man who exits the shower is no sprightlier than the one who went in, but he is cleaner. Even so the reddened skin still smells ‘off’. I cover myself with a liberal dose of deodorant.

The bathroom mirror is as unkind as ever. My gaze drops shyly from puffy, bent and scraped-up features to find a familiar orange bottle next to the sink. I gratefully spin the lid off and swallow the last three pills within.

OxyContin.

Perfect for all occasions

I slowly dress in a grotty dressing gown. Kristine has objected to its propensity to flap open in the past, but I wear it anyway.

Her disgust at me cannot be cranked to a higher level.

I leave the bedroom, attentively monitoring the receding pain. Kristine is nesting in a couch-curled position. I am not greeted. She wears a cute pink track-suit; the daggiest clothing her standards allow. Her turned head when I front her is telling.

There’s only so much of the silent treatment I can stand. I fume to myself for a few seconds mulling over how much leeway I should give her.

At least she’s out of bed.

But, let's not forget, while she’s been lying around feeling sorry for herself, I’d been fighting the good fight.

Sure, the weeks she’d suffered as Shanna deteriorated had run her down a bit but I remember how much her denial had affected me too.

I can try to imagine how my underhanded tactic of drugging her so I could kill her girlfriend has broken her spirit. Then my hasty burial of Shanna’s remains denies her the closure of laying Shanna's body to rest.

Stuff like this can take their toll on a person’s mental state.

Certainly didn't do me any favours.

Dammit, my past actions have been rather extreme. I better try something. She might think it’s a bit weird for me to hover here opening and closing my mouth soundlessly. How should I initiate a conversation with her? I am no judge of how long a person needs to grieve.

I eye the baby lying in her lap. She’s clean and wears a fresh nappy. Kristine’s mental turmoil isn't preventing her looking after the kid anyway.

I give the tot a little wave.

“Stop standing there. Stop looking at me.”

Any communication, even angry words, unties my tongue. I launch into my extraordinary tale, confident she’ll have to forgive me after hearing these exploits. She’ll snap out of her depression by sheer incredibility.

“You wouldn’t believe what happened to me. I have the worst luck in the world. I’ve been in the group mind of the Parasites, and I got swallowed...”

Kristine stands up slowly, cradling the baby with care, and walks towards her room.

“Don’ talk to me. I hate you.”

“Ohh. Well. OK. I understand you’re still a bit upset, but this is important...”

More door slamming.

I’d been rather excited about relating the discovery of my telepathic skills and monster killing activities. But if Kristine needs a little longer to get over what I’d done to Shanna then it would have to wait.

**************

There are many ways to recover from the experiences I’d faced. Pharmacology is one of them.

A new daily routine develops over the next week. It is apparent Kristine won’t leave her room while I’m around. To give her the run of the place - and give myself a break from the crying machine - I withdraw to the roof for several hours every day.

Beer and snacks are on hand to keep me company, but as a rule I follow George Thorogood’s lyrics, ‘You know when I drink alone; I prefer to be by myself.’

This particular day finds me sitting atop our castle under the shade-cloth hut I’d made, idly looking over the city. I reach down to crack the morning’s first beer when a massive dark thread waves at the edge of my vision. I spill from my seat in fright, twisting towards the east, instantly erasing the mark from sight as I turn.

A scratching at the corners of my eyes is not alleviated by hard rubbing.

Other-sight rises from dormancy, a polite leviathan inviting itself into frantic eyeballs.

My weedy doorman grants it full entry, surprised by the Royal visit and unwilling to invoke its displeasure with obstructions.

There is no time to examine its make-up. Veils fall across my eyes, enhancing and obscuring physical elements until the way I see is moulded into a new dimension.

Sunlight darkens by degrees until day dims into patchy duskiness.

Parasite fog? Shouldn’t that be broken up by now?

Living things; the trees and animals roaming the Savannah of our grounds below; glow with an inner luminescence. I pick out rats, cats and various other native species foraging and rummaging for food. The renewed novelty of exploring its capabilities sidetrack me from the reason it chose to revisit.

As a competent single-use mechanism, Other-sight picks out the tendril I’d seen moments before. I look up and stiffen in fear. It is indeed a Parasite manufactured streak that streaks the sky. As high and thin as a jet engine’s contrail, black instead of white, invisible to all but me.

Recalling a protection is required from such ghostly limbs, I look down at myself. The protective shield does not glow around me.

Other-sight snaps off at my dismay. I scuttle like a crab at a ridiculous half-crouch towards the roof door. I feel horribly exposed beneath that waving limb, even if it is several thousand feet high.

I run recklessly along corridors feeling the muted pain of badly bandaged feet. The thick socks I wear in lieu of shoes are a recipe for a nasty fall at this pace.

I rely on pre-digested medications to ensure potential hurts are covered.

Reaching the Staff Quarters in one piece, I find Kristine in the kitchen. She’s mixing baby formula from a tin I’d found for her among the stockpile downstairs. She jumps in fright at my unexpected entry then feigns total disinterest.

“More Parasites! One of their feelers is above us!”

“Shut up. Not talkin’ to you.”

“Don’t hafta talk. Listen! There’s a Parasite tendril... or tentacle... whatever! I can see it... but you probably can’t. It’s above us. Whatever sent it out must be HUGE! I killed the other one, it was pretty big, but there’s probably thousands of nests, and they might be all linked together, and if they are, they’ll know what I did!”

I’m gabbling. Kristine looks at me with irritable blankness. Panting for breath I try again, slower.

“See there’s parasites INSIDE the Parasites. Remember that grey shit on Shanna’s gums...”

Oh fuck. That was the wrong thing to say. Her face crumples and tears are instant. She switches off the stove, takes the baby bottle, and returns to her room at a trot.

I follow, leaning against the door slammed in my face.

“You gotta believe me. I’m so sorry about Shanna. Please...”

I plead and apologise, hunkering at her threshold for hours in abject misery.

Eventually I crawl away to the couch.

******************

People think they can reach the rocky bottom of the depths of despair. They are wrong. They may find a ledge on the way down but there is no bottom. Despair is a misty void that goes down forever.

Excluded from their company I hear the baby’s contented cries and Kristine’s soft crooning.

I fall further still.

*******************

When faced with overwhelming depression I tend to wander. This aimless walk-about returns me to the outer doors leading to the dock several times.

I haven’t thought of the truck or its contents since my return.

Whatever my subconscious is prompting, it probably won’t leave me alone until I look. I open the doors, not expecting to find the tools of redemption.

A truck-load of gardening supplies?

The spoils of my foray into Creep territory are disappointing. This crap is the reason I’d suffered through several near-death experiences?

Thought processes hum while I handle the implements and bags of fertilizer. Then I see the stupid half dead pine tree. Original intentions well up and expel the dark clouds.

Immediately I get to work unloading.

(Chapter 107)

Fatal Cure - Chapter 105

(Index)

Sodden sadness is all I can find to wrap up sharp-edged guilt. Packing it into a flimsy cardboard mind is careless.

The route I drive becomes more familiar with each turn, allowing me to descend deeper into self-pity, numbly selecting gears on cue, glancing occasionally at the child. The truck’s vibrations and harsh suspension take their toll on her patience. She digs deeply into a large repertoire of screams and cries a detailed critique of my driving skills.

I’m powerless to comfort her; too engrossed with steering to provide the proper attention. My absent-minded touches are merely to prevent her from sliding while cornering.

She winds down. The quiet breaks into my daze. Her little hand has found the fake furry rabbit’s foot attached to my pocket-knife.

If it keeps her amused she can have it. Never brought me any luck anyway.

A smoky-lens filter drops over eyes that wander from the appointed task of driving. As if on cue a pure white cat crosses the road well in front of us.

Is that some twisted superstitious symbolism? Is my psychic ability being invoked to reassure me? Can a white cat equal a reversal of failing fortune?

Or is it just a scared moggy, running from the humans who once nurtured it? Owners who now attack warm-blooded creatures on sight.

I’m too tired and jaded to read into the depths of this rare sighting. The filter wavers at my disinterest then clears, leaving eyesight poorly equipped for steering duties.

We are nearly there. Our home’s fence line unspools on our left. An already irregular heart-beat hippity-hops at the damage human hands can inflict on steel. Sections of mesh are crushed and trodden into the ground. Its valiant resistance before surrender is evidenced by ragged scraps of clothing that flutter in broken wire fingers, trophies clawed from passing Creeps who’d trampled the weakest link.

I turn in and idle at the imposing gate, grimacing at the grey facility in its encroaching ocean of greenery before winding the window down. Swiping the proximity card rolls back the obedient gate. I’m silently grateful to the Creeps' ignorance. The importance of power to us is beyond them. Strategic damage of machinery would have brought us to extinction by now.

I’m well aware that their base desire is consumption. I’d felt their burning appetite while sharing their consciousness and I’d fed those flames with my secret infatuation for Kristine’s desirable flesh. The Parasite sorting machine had squeezed my shameful carnal fantasies and prioritised her as a target on a mistaken recommendation.

I drive in. Darting eyes populate wild foliage bordering the driveway with moving figures. Every waving shadow tugs at peripheral vision’s acute perception, though each occasion is belatedly recognised as a tree branch or a piece of rubbish.

Each false alarm stresses a core resolve.

Every part of me wants to flee this city; to drive far away from the treachery and pain I seem to deliver and receive without end.

I don’t run because the cold, logical part of me knows we lack the fuel and energy to do so.

I back onto the dock, pushing the sunnies over my brow when shadows fold around the windscreen. The mirror reflects worry and fright until I tilt it away. Rear bumper meets rubber stoppers, stalling the engine.

A cold breeze moans around the dock. Fine dust, carried on its breath, eddies across laser beams of late sunlight. The warm rays are erased by a cloud the moment I touch the door handle.

Bare leg skin unpeels from vinyl with a tearing sound. If that was unpleasant, hopping to the ground is the agony I need to stoke my anger. It keep me from collapsing. Shoving the huge dock gates closed, I crash them shut. They lock automatically.

The sound brings to mind a condemned man’s cell-door slamming for the last time.

The thin shell of courage I’ve relied on to keep me going cracks at the thought. Denying myself an escape route is almost as bad as leaving it open.

A convenient wall supports me on the way to the dock steps. A forgotten baby senses abandonment, stalling me halfway with muffled bawling. For the first time I recognise she has a positive use - she's reminded me that the shotgun and keys are still in the truck.

Returning, I retrieve two items I want and one I don’t. In the absence of pockets, and before I run out of hands, I clamp the swipe-card holder between my teeth. Dangling keys stab my chin and cheeks at violent neck twists.

I’m on high alert for an ambush.

Tucking the fragile baby beneath one arm and the gun under the other I squeeze each with care. Both stay silent, even with rough handling.

Mounting the dock involves a mountainous trek of singly taken steps. I look up from the fifth and last, preoccupied by the logistics of juggling this load and unlocking the outer doors.

Uh oh. The keys aren’t needed.

A stupid riddle pops into my head: when is a door not a door? When it’s ajar!

Hundreds of muddy footprints on white-painted concrete embellish the groan-inducing answer with a chilling punch to the gut.

The Creeps are inside.

The ramifications seize and loosen my knees randomly, resulting in a spastic, stiff-legged, geriatric robot walk. The conflicting urges to fight or flee returns. I lean across one door and peek in, inviting a severe fright if anything lurks on the other side.

No monsters await me. No sounds or movements either. The intruders leave their calling cards of dragged feet and scuffed shoe prints in scattered dust.

Masochism goads me to slip inside. I jam the gun between my legs as I purposefully entomb us further. Locks click loudly in the cavernous, echoing hush. The baby senses a change of atmosphere. Her whimpers cease abruptly. A last cry dies in her throat. Scrunched up eyes open and find mine expectantly, as if seeking permission to start again.

I hold a finger to my lips and listen hard. The utter silence is worse than her irritating background drone.

The toted gun hangs heavily from my arm, and I tell cold, sore feet to move towards Checkpoint One. They collect grit in cuts and leave behind faint smears of blood in protest.

I’d renamed Checkpoint One the wagon wheel due to its layout. Its central hub is an impervious glass-encased octagonal office and corridor spokes radiate from it provide access while limiting movement to and from every part of the building.

No one occupies the guard office nor the circular ring around it.

Two stout barred doors stand open, impotently chocked by me from performing their function, in violation of old rules and new.

Niggling fears of having left every door like this are being realised. I’d relied on paranoia to curb laziness. Even under the influence of chemicals I’d always locked up after myself. So why, on the one time that it really mattered, had I left us exposed? The Creeps hadn’t even needed to search the place. I’d left them a single route to travel and they’d taken it.

I kick the chocks out and swing the doors closed, drawing small comfort that my exposure to danger can be limited from here. The compartmentalised nature of the building allows each area to be locked down yet still be accessed by alternate routes.

For now I won’t use them. I follow the Creep’s tracks; the most direct path to the staff quarters. Hopelessness builds but the importance of witnessing Kristine’s fate cannot be explained. I cannot run away to forever wonder if she wanders the earth in that undead state. If I must end her suffering so be it. I owe her that much, and more.

I labour forth up stairs and down corridors. Journey's end is a four-way intersection. The ways ahead and to the left are shut and locked. But the third way, the penultimate door to our quarters presses against the wall, pinned by a milk crate full of golf balls I'd left there for use as a canny defensive weapon at some stage.

I round the corner moving under pure momentum, and take delivery of a shocking discovery. The short corridor leading to the Staff Quarters security door is empty.

Tension and fear, used unsparingly to get me this far, call a confused conference. I turn around to back down the empty aisle, covering the way I'd come, thinking hard.

All rooms along the route had been empty. Where could the Creeps possibly hide?

Unless...

Halfway there I turn again, very carefully scutinising the blue, steel-cored door. The hosts certainly got this far. The stench of human waste and body odour hangs in the air, and dirty handprints cover the walls. The floor is slippery with urine from instinctual releases.

Yet, the Staff Quarters door is shut tight and undamaged.

I would never, and I mean never, have left this door chocked.

Or had I?

The blacked out section of memory is so maddening. The only thing that allows me to contain a mental explosion is the thought that much screaming is likely to be required in the very near future.

I continue, treading in more puddles, muttering a comforting mantra. They scarpered when the leash came off their minds. Yes, they would have. Why would they hang around this sterile place?

Then there’s the more likely possibility. Kristine had heard them tapping and shuffling around out here and opened the door, thinking it was me.

Trust pessimism to kick the shit out of hope.

I prop the shotgun against the wall. It seems the better choice compared to putting the baby on the unsanitary floor. The proximity card is slick with my breathed out dribble. I drop it and bend, finding the right key by feel. My eyes are constantly moving, on everything but the lock.

The dual-sided key zips home and I twist hard, pulling the door towards me. I brace to slam it shut, again anticipating a surprise party from Hell to be in full swing. Dead silence, warm air and the smell of spoiled food are the only things that rush out at me.

No-one is in the kitchen.

The shotgun, chosen for the lead role without consultation, trembles. I swing its deadly snout to cover innocent, humming appliances and sidle in behind it. An impatient closer rudely ushers me in, pushing the door hard against my heels.

It snaps closed with authority at my back.

Extending my arm to full reach I centre the gun on the swinging doors leading into the lounge room. Sighting down the barrel with painfully widened eyes, I part the doors.

The skinny vertical slice of lounge room revealed is dishevelled, but it too lacks a level of destruction I’d expect from an army of hosts.

None of whom are showing their faces.

A noise from Kristine’s room! The attempted covert entry is announced by doors that flap noisily behind me.

An all too familiar pre-killing coldness spreads across my brain, conversely accompanied by the sensation of soft, warm carpet.

Kristine’s door creaks open dramatically. Broken-nailed fingers wrap around the jam, supporting a slow moving body that shuffles out.

I squeeze the baby tighter and snug the gun’s butt into my shoulder, tensing in preparation to fire. A cry of anger settles into a constant wail the child has made her own in her short time alive. I swallow a knot in my throat

Kristine emerges, pushing stringy hair aside when it falls to hang over her face.

Her baffled, stiff expression does not unlimber my finger from a tensioned trigger. Dead eyes meet mine with frightening disinterest.

One tiny wrong move decides if she lives or dies.

“Whass that noise? Why haven’ you got any pants on? Don’ point that gun at me!”

Her drugged expression and concentrated drawl releases me from the edge of murder. I relax one hand’s grip, letting the shotgun fall. Holding out the wrapped baby to her is the end of that arm's usefulness. Kristine instinctively takes the package with bleary incomprehension.

The combined weight of all that has happened crushes any remaining senses. I manage to take the few extra steps into my room on stabbingly painful feet.

I see heaven.

My unmade bed and dirty sheets are achingly beautiful.

I fall towards it...

(Chapter 106)

Fatal Cure - Chapter 104

(Index)

It’s the same name of the nursery where I’d been captured.

Is it a mirage?

A trick?

A flashback?

Am I really having a nice lie down somewhere, dreaming this?

Hot sunshine burns into my face, thawing the icicles of disbelief that lock me in place. I lean down, looking over the stupid glasses to read the last faded line: 1.3 kilometres, left turn at Hanson Street.

Yes. I can just manage that distance if I walk slowly.

A bullet spangs off the sign, approximately where my head had been and paint flecks sting my face. The half-crouch of surprise causes my jumper to ride up, exposing more butt crack than a seasoned plumber. A chaste downward pull corrects this, but my mate, Greybeard the Pirate, takes offence.

He yells through that giant beard while hobbling towards me, using of the gun as a crutch. I hope he’ll shoot himself each time the stock thumps the ground.

“Christ will not suffer a child murderer! Ya infested, fat pervert, I’ll kill ya!”

Oh great. A religious nut. I’ll admit our new world is an incubator for mental instability, but I resent being called names under false pretences. The kid’s not dead. In fact she’s bawling loudly; but I’m getting used to that.

If called upon to provide a swift summation I’d label him the Creep. He parodies them perfectly in those grotty, lived-in clothes and hitching walk. Only by his crazed voice do I know the clothing results from intentional neglect, and his gait is a result of arthritis or poorly mended bones.

The devil’s advocate briefly considers my own modicum of clothing. Creeps favour an unflattering randomness of apparel it is true, and my foot-sore hobbled gait could be construed as a zombie-like shamble.

Regardless of my bizarre appearance, I view his religious-tainted vendetta and blatant persecution with dread. This old mind-broken freak will track me to the ends of the earth. Why can’t he shoot one way and run in the other like I always did?

Though bruised and battered, my feet cover distance faster than his acute limp. I hop between grassy tufts sprouting at the edge of the asphalt and the footpath’s cracks, weaving around trees and power poles to frustrate a clean shot from behind.

A brief breather behind a post office box doubles as an opportunity to update the loony’s progress.

He’s still coming; gamely swinging his dicky leg. He spots the sweaty face peering around the red box and reshoulders the rifle. Fortunately he’s exhausted and the heavy barrel droops before the trigger is pulled. He doubles over, clasping a hand to his knee, breathing hard.

I try to reason with him.

“Go home you silly old bastard! I’m not a Creep.”

He glowers at me. Maybe they call Creeps something else around here.

I race off; down to a fast walk now, but reach a small roundabout well in front of the murderous oldster.

Remembering the sign’s instructions I break left down Hanson Street. This is not the route I’d driven in on, however from this direction fewer houses separate me from my goal. The nursery’s triangular, bright orange roof is a highly visible landmark. A few hundred wincing steps more brings the large, shade-clothed greenhouse into view.

Risking a shot in the back, I leave the road. Striking out across a thickly grassed stretch of land adjoining the nursery will get me there that much quicker.

I reach a sagging, triple wire fence that protects the property and stand outside the legal boundary, swamped by uncertainty. Fate’s fickle hand has been firm against my back, speeding me along at a pace that encourages accidental deaths. A hiatus from my usual progression of bad to worse might be halted if I had time to think.

The rolling echo of a high powered rifle discourages deep contemplation. It will also be attracting the attention of everything in the vicinity. Very cautiously I grab a handful of barbed wire and swing my dangling manhood clear. I tense again when a second report trails another bullet which misses.

From the wire straddled position I look back to see the old gunslinger at the roundabout corner. He leans against a signpost, steadying his aim for another shot.

I’m well over two hundred metres away. Providing life’s roulette wheel isn’t rigged by Bad Luck’s hand I’d wager I'm an impossible target for his marksmanship. On second thoughts, when it comes to Bad Luck’s mischief, a million-to-one chance pays out more often than I like.

I hunch, thinking small while moving at a swift trudge towards the shade structure.

The greenhouse is torn to shreds. Pots and racking are in disarray, trashed by a hundred careless hosts who’d broken in to get at me. Thankfully the vandals have been called away. Judging from the Creeps I’d seen inside the barrier there’d been a massive redeployment back to the hive.

I could probably take the credit for that occurrence.

So here I am, brought full circle back to the spot I’d been taken from. So many things had happened in so short a time span I get dizzy thinking about it.

My beautiful, beaten up truck is right where I left it, poking out from the broken gates. I approach, hearing my feet tacking loudly as I peel them from sticky scraps of meat. Gnawed bones are also scattered, and I notice the stack of dead hosts, shot between the truck and fence post no longer fill the gap.

Survivors of that fight have dragged them about and feasted after my departure.

Upon reaching the truck I hunker to survey the interior of the shade house. Surprises will not be tolerated.

I listen long and carefully.

A closer bang from a familiar rifle makes me jump and curse. I open the truck’s door and toss the baby onto the seat, reassuringly touching the swipe-card that dangles from the key-ring.

Forgetting to take it with me when I got out is rare good fortune.

I turn the key until the dash glow plug symbol lights up then twist it further. The engine growls into life, puffing black smoke into the air.

Jumping in to drive away is almost irresistible, but I know the loading ramp is down. Much as it galls me, I have to raise it. Dragging it in the lowered position will strand us at the first speed bump.

I squeeze through the gap between the bent and bloodied gate and truck, watching every direction at once for unfriendlies. Nothing moves except torn shade-cloth in the light breeze.

My shotgun lies where it had fallen, next to a torn, burnt, and bloodied jumper of previous multi-colourations. There is some kind of bird knitted into the pattern. It wasn't something I’d noted whilst in the throes of my killing spree.

A large water feature's mirror provides a sudden revelation, I stretch out the front of the purple creation I’m wearing and stare at the dirty-white duck embossed on its front.

Another troubling moment of synchronicity and troubling coincidence.

Shaking off the spooky feeling that my life’s troubles are orchestrated by higher beings for their amusement, I pick up the shotgun and collect cartridges from the ground. Reloading the gun, I scurry to an intact corner and look out.

The red-faced, swearing, gun-toting maniac is about fifty metres into the paddock I’d crossed. I raise the shotgun and shoot at his head. I miss of course, but the reaction is priceless. He stops, confused beyond comprehension, and then drops his rifle-crutch, reaching for the sky in surrender.

Uninterested in prisoners I fire again. The 00 buckshot tears a hole in the grass at his feet. Damn barrel must be bent; I’m still aiming at his head.

He turns tail quick smart and skedaddles.

Angry at being chased so far for no good reason I fire one more time, shrugging when fleeing figure doesn’t fall.

I sigh before running to the truck where I grab up the ramp controls. The electric motor whines and the metal plate rises in slow motion. I constantly shift and twirl, examining every tiny movement in every direction. Paranoia builds a sense of impending doom that no amount of lip-biting can calm. The ramp isn’t quite closed when the fear takes over.

I drop the rubberised controller and have scraped through the too-small gap before bringing myself under partial control. I’m hyperventilating as I clamber aboard the truck. My head is so full of the most efficient sequence to get us rolling I almost forget the baby. At the last moment before my butt crushes her I reach behind to scoop her up then fall back heavily. A quick look at the glove box is rejected as an appropriate place for her, leaving the document tray the next best spot. I displace most of the sharp objects and place her in it, then slam my door shut and slap down the lock.

Thus secured I let in the clutch and punch the maxi-brakes button in.

We’re moving! The pall of doom around me is pushed back, the way a recovering patient would reject his prematurely placed funeral shroud. Flagging spirits draw hope when each second passes and that constant last minute disappointment doesn’t show its dreaded self.

The truck engine growls smoothly under load. Whatever is on board is heavy and loosely packed. I’ll need to drive carefully if I am to get us home safely.

And here I allow myself to wonder.

Do I even have a home left to return to?

Is my only friend in the world alive?

Is she hurt?

Or worse; is she possessed?

(Chapter 105)