SAM AT THE END OF THE WORLD - (Synopsis)

'SAM AT THE END OF THE WORLD' (SATEOTW) is a horror story. A Zombie-genre inspired post-apocalyptic vision involving strong violence and references to sex. Profanity and drug use are affectations I have adopted to tell this tale. They do not necessarily reflect the author's personal values.Sam had no heroic delusions before the sudden plague of genetically engineered Parasites fell upon mankind; and he sees no reason to change his self-indulgent after the majority of mankind are transformed into unthinking, murderous husks by vicious, controlling monsters within their bodies.

Surviving the infestation has left Sam a suicidal mess. His only motivation to live is to avoid becoming a Parasite Host for long enough to organise a peaceful death. However his plans are fraught with problems. He stumbles from one unthinkable situation to the next, wondering why the less he tries to care, the harder life gets.Sam makes a final mistake and his life is about to be extinguished by a nightmarish creature. To his utter annoyance a beautiful woman appears and saves him...

...Sam is not fooled by good fortune. Bad Luck is his only friend and he knows life is only going to get worse...

 Go ahead, click 'Chapter 1', or INDEX and enter the twisted mind of Sam.This is not a first draft but it MAY HAVE the odd spelling or grammatical errors. Plot holes? I would love you to point them out so the necessary corrections can be made. All input from readers is welcome and will be responded to.

I began this story in January 2007 and finished it in July 2008.

This novel may reflect movies and books of this genre which is a galling and irritating fact. BUT, I strive for originality in all that I write and reject any claims of blatant rip-offs.

Be warned, I seek to entertain, but may offend, depending on your beliefs and sensibilities. Enjoy.

Read my 'Disclaimer' here.

Find reviews here.

Sam's latest adventure is here: SAM IN 'A BETTER WORLD'.

SAM AT THE END OF THE WORLD - (A Final Word From The Author)

Hello again Valued Reader and thank you for giving me your time (and hopefully some feedback) while reading my novel - Sam At The End Of The World. I hope it entertained you and made you laugh in the right places.

This time round I have heavily edited the previously uploaded series. I've hacked away pages of unnecessary words, improved descriptions, changed Sam's incredibly verbose method of seeing the world and overall I am happy with the result. 

I don't know how long I will leave the story up. I'm having another go at getting published and then... I guess we'll have to wait and see.

If you're up for it, I have started another Sam adventure. It is not finished nor polished but I am keen to return to it some day soon.

For everyone who reads this tale, refers a link to a friend, leaves any sort of comment or correction, or lends me their support or constructive criticism, I especially thank you, most deeply and expansively.

(INDEX) 

Chapter 96 - Day By Day

(INDEX)

Some time has passed since the Holy day of my forgiveness. I’ve lessened my drug intake. The child grows; thriving on the love of a perfect mother and the teasing of a less an imperfect man. Kristine and I do not talk as often as we used to. When we do the exchanges have an undercurrent that may never leave.

I’ve made several efforts to explain my experience after Shanna’s death and mishandle the subject each time. Kristine distils my unlikely story into a format she can understand: I’d found a baby somewhere, took too many drugs, and hallucinated the rest. Her nervous glances at my pill bottles, or the glass in my hand, speak volumes of incredulous disbelief even if she refuses to voice them.

Exasperated by her motherly patience my thoughts usually scatter, and the tale loses cohesion. I spit out my transmogrification in indigestible chunks and halting mis-remembrances which wind down in guilty silences. She raises an eyebrow particularly high when I describe my psychic abilities.

True, I compound the unlikely nature of these claims by waving my arms vigorously to show her the Parasite fog that stains the sky a little more each day. I press my hands against a refuelled shield that has returned to glow in sickly luminance around me, infuriatingly invisible to Kristine’s eyes. I strain every fibre of my being to penetrate Kristine’s mind, without success.

“What are you doing? Why are you screwing up your face 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’ve been vigilant; half-expecting its appearance. The tendril streaks another dark line across the sky, halving the North-West quadrants 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 forth tendril slices the sky into smaller pie wedges. I believe the destroyed nest is being triangulated by others. The incoming, road weary Creeps we begin to see on the highways, are replayed in my lucid dreams. They are the scouts of a larger Army, seeking the nest destroyers.

We are hunted.

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

And, if running away is not an option, I vow to protect my dysfunctional family and fight them to my last breath.

The End

(A Word From The Author)

Chapter 95 - Winning Forgiveness

(INDEX)

I roll myself to the heavy staff quarter’s door and fight an unnecessarily handicapped battle from the chair against the cantankerous closer. Kristine is indifferent to the reason for my clattering, swearing entry. She remains parked on the couch, staring sightlessly at the sleeping baby who has slipped precariously between her slack thighs.

Kristine’s dulled senses are rooted in the sedative offerings I leave for her each morning. The pills disappear as fast as my back is turned but she no longer retreats to her room. This encouraging development has had some undesirable side-effects.

To prevent her dwelling on her troubles I’ve attempted to divert her attention by playing a constant loop of kiddie DVD’s. The TV’s childish cheerfulness also alleviates the unbearable, ticking silence that hangs between us whenever we are in the same room.

I roll the chair to her and watch the flaring colours and plastic characters joyfully solve a minor upset on the screen for a moment. An incongruous soundtrack accompanies their outrageous hyperbole. I’m confused until I see she has the TV sound off and the stereo on.

A female’s soft, mournful voice drones from the speakers. This is partially my fault for not checking the suitability of albums in the stacker. At least she’s managed to get her faculties together enough to turn it on. I’d thought this action was beyond her. Shrugging, I begin my prepared speech.

“I’ve made something for you.”

“All you make are messes.”

Her bitter words are all the encouragement I need. It’s the first time she’s spoken to me in days. Instant tears glitter in her dark-ringed eyes. She grapples with the child and stands unsteadily, ready to withdraw from my sight. But I’m ready for this tactic.

Holding a baby is an encumbrance I can use to my advantage. Totally deluded by my past refusal to raise a hand against her, Kristine is shocked when I firmly take her by the shoulders. Steering her backwards, she collapses into the wheelchair seat with a short scream. I wrap the retraining belt around her waist, securing the clasp 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 what I say.”

Before she can think about kicking me in the nuts, I move out of range.

“C’mon, let’s get some sunshine.”

She slumps with a frustrated sigh, too depressed, tired and confused to argue further. She occupies herself by cuddling and shushing the baby, who howls in objection to our jostling, while I wheel them to the lift and press the ground floor button.

After pushing them inside I wait until the doors clunk together and then sprint downstairs. Puffing, I reach the ground floor, turning on the speed when I hear the ‘ding’ of its arrival. The doors open and immediately begin to close again. I’m only just quick enough to get a hand between them, slapping the safety buffer while Kristine furiously mashes the ‘Close’ button a few more times. 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 the blocks of afternoon sun slanting through security-meshed windows.

We reach the garden, and I slow to allow Kristine’s muddled brain to take in the weld-mesh arch I’ve constructed across 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.

I muscle us along the crushed gravel path that crunches beneath the chair’s wheels and hope she notices the line of flowering shrubs I’d replanted. 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 bruise a few leaves on the peppermint geraniums 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 the ground flat metal, and it glows spectacularly in afternoon sunlight.

SHANNA.

It had taken me several tries to get her name right. I hope the grinder marks aren’t too noticeable where I’d forgotten to include the second ‘N’. Twice! Kristine stares, struck dumb and still.

Unable to emulate her frozen state I impatiently tap my fingers on the chairs 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 burnished steel. Her hand lifts to caress the pine needles of the stunted tree and a small wail escapes her. I’m confident she doesn’t need its significance explained.

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

She smiles at me through her tears, and the hate, fear, and madness that has muddied her features fades. She cries and gasps deep breaths into cupped hands to hide her anguished face. Her body language asks me to hold her, but I fear a misinterpretation and shuffle my feet uncomfortably instead.

My throat tightens and both eyes mist. Bloody hell, I’m about to start bawling too. She looks up to see my pain and runs the two steps to me. Her embrace closes the remaining emotional gap between us and my heart implodes. We sob together, clinging as though we’ll never let go. Forgiveness leaks from her one tear at a time. The baby eventually ruins the moment by wailing her own upset at being squashed between us. Kristine finally disengages to take the child from me.

As she shyly eases away I reach out to hold her hand. When she lets me, I even pat the kid’s downy head. We stand at Shanna’s grave until the light fades.

(Chapter 96)

Chapter 94 - The Tribute

(INDEX)

I am excluded from their company, reduced to eavesdropping on the baby’s contented gurgles and Kristine’s loving croons through closed doors. I step off a low point and fall further still into the depths of despair. There is no rocky bottom to hit; only sharp ledges to clutch at on the way down a misty void to oblivion.

*

When afflicted by overwhelming depression I tend to wander. One aimlessness walk-about takes me to the freight dock doors. I halt. The truck and its contents are on the other side. For whatever reason my subconscious has brought me here, it probably won’t leave me alone until I investigate.

I open the doors and let down the truck’s ramp to dully look over the gardening supplies inside. Thought processes are reactivated when I step in amongst the contents. These are spoils of my foray into Creep territory? The reason I’d suffered through several near death experiences? Tools, fertilizers, mulch, cement and statues. What a stupid…

…then I see that forlorn, half-dead pine tree. Original intentions as resurrected and the dark clouds are dispelled. The unexpected tool of my redemption is speedily unloaded.

*

The scope of works needed to earn my atonement is ambitious. I spend many sweaty hours each day in our tranquil little park, building, planting, watering and digging. The hardest sustained work I’ve done in months stretches and tears flabby muscles, instantly soothed with chemical affection. My daily exhaustion is absolved by sensuous 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.

The single black tendril I discovered several days ago has progressed from the East across the azure skies, as high, thin and straight as a jet engine’s contrail. A second thread crawls from the northern horizon on a southerly heading. Each day they head closer to our location and eventually collide high above. They commune for a time before departing to continue their straight line journey.

I gape up at the formation they form, standing under a giant, pencil-thin X. The axis of which is directly over my head.

*

The completion of the garden project is defined by the limits of my skill. When that limit is reached, I waste the best part of a day picking up individual leaves and hiding them under a bush. I use these pitiful, cowardly delaying tactics to gather my courage. The next part of my plan involves inviting Kristine down here and weathering her inevitable hate and sorrow.

Several wheelchairs lie about the building; left awry from past drunken episodes of careening through the corridors, crashing into objects, giggling like a school-girl. One of these conveyances is destined for less mirthful duties.

I search out a reasonably unbent chair and send it to our floor via the shunned lift. Climbing the stairs eats a reserve of energy I should be saving for the task ahead. Upstairs I slump into the delivered wheelie and take a brief time-out, chewing tiny measures of chemical strength.

(Chapter 95)

Chapter 93 - The Sighting

(INDEX)

There are many ways to recover from the experiences I’d faced. Pharmacology is one of them. A new daily routine develops. 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.

I try to obey George Thorogood’s wise lyrics, ‘when I drink alone; I prefer to be by myself’, but mostly I allow snacks and drugs to keep me company.

*

One 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 second beer when a dark thread waves at the edge of my vision. I spill from my seat in fright, twisting towards the east, instantly erasing the dark mark as I turn.

A scratching at the corners of my eyes is not alleviated by hard rubbing. Instead, I feel Other-sight rising from dormancy. This is the first time it has made an appearance since I’d returned. I hadn’t given it a thought since then.

The polite leviathan invites itself into my frantically resistant eyeballs without asking. My mind has a weedy doorman who grants it full entry without a pat-down. Although surprised by the visit I am unwilling to invoke its displeasure with obstructions.

The Other-world veils fall across my eyes, enhancing and obscuring certain physical elements until I once again see in extra dimensions. Sunlight darkens by degrees until day dims into patchy duskiness.

I suddenly have the ability to distinguish the aura of all living things, whether they are animals hiding and hunting in the savannah below, or the trees and shrubs that stand fast on their roots. They all glow with an inner luminescence that I can zoom in on. The renewed novelty of this exceptional ability side-tracks me for several minutes until the reason for its visit returns.

I look up and outwards towards the horizon and clearly pick out a tendril. I stiffen in fear as I recognise that waving filament. It is a Parasite group mind probe. Other tendrils are also visible. They streak across the sky at the very limit of even my extended vision.

Although they are very far away I recall the shield I’d needed to repel such ghostly limbs. I look down at myself to find the protective glow is missing. The Other-sight snaps off at my dismay and I scuttle like a crab in a ridiculous half-crouch towards the roof door, feeling horribly exposed.

I run recklessly along corridors, barely feeling the muted pain of poorly bandaged feet. The thick socks I wear in lieu of shoes are a recipe for a nasty fall at this pace, but I am pre- medicated and carefree of mortal dangers.

Reaching the staff quarters in one piece, I find Kristine in the kitchen mixing baby formula from a tin I’d found for her amongst the stockpile downstairs. She jumps in fright at my rushed entry, and then feigns total disinterest.

“More Parasites! I’ve seen one of their feelers!”

“Shut up. Not talkin’ to you.”

“Don’t hafta talk. Listen! There’s a Parasite tentacle...probe thingy… 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’re 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 through me with irritable blankness. Panting for breath I try again, slower.

“See there’s a bunch of 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 and lean my forehead against the door that has been 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 leave, unable to withstand the destructive power of her endless sobs.

(Chapter 94)

Chapter 92 - Unforgiven

(INDEX)

...a deep and lengthy appreciation of sleep’s tranquillity. Consciousness is rejected again and again in favour of that healing slumber until my brain starts signalling urgent bodily needs.

“Uhhhhhhh.”

Groaning scuffs a tongue drier than the Sahara Desert around my mouth. Each waking intake of breath aggravates a basketball-sized bladder. A cooling dampness beneath me indicates at least one impatient release has occurred. I smell rank.

Opened eyes fill with crumbled sand from caked eyelids. I blink rapidly in semi-darkness and find I’m enveloped by a bed-sheet. Kristine has cared enough to cover me then? Or is it a shroud she’s wishfully wrapped me in?

Pain cavorts, stabbing my prone body like a hyperactive, stick-wielding child on a sugar high. The whole idea of getting up is too hard. Who cares if I wet the bed again? I’m going back to the Land of Nod.

Just before the impossible is achieved I sense someone sneaking into the room. An adrenaline rush ruins sleep’s beckoning seduction for good.

“I heard you. I know you’re awake.”

An ever-so 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 of me better than this. Maybe she’s got her period. Why does she sound drugged? She doesn’t usually take drugs.

Oh wait. Yeah, now I remember. Vividly. I’d knocked her out so I could kill Shanna. And then I’d abandoned her to go out and pick up a tree, leaving pills instead of caring enough to be there for her. Thinking about these events too deeply might reveal more reprehensible actions. So I don’t. The worst part of her hating me is I won’t be nursed through my pains. Probably have to cook my own breakfast too!

Rising from my filthy bed involves bending and twisting parts that aren’t ready for such actions. The accompanying cracks, pops and groans could fill the sound track to 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 water taps freezes then scalds me when I overcompensate. I dial a groan up and down my throat until the temperature is corrected and the shower’s fullest pressure blasts over my head. Loose dirt and Parasite shit erodes from my body until 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 my reddened skin still smells ‘off’. I cover the weird odour liberally with deodorant.

The bathroom mirror is as unkindly honest as ever. My gaze drops shyly from the 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 it’s the closest piece of clothing available. Anyway, I doubt her disgust at me can be cranked to a higher level. I leave the bedroom, attentively monitoring pains that recede in front of a chemical broom.

Kristine is nesting. I am not greeted from her couch-curled position. She wears a cute, pink track-suit; the daggiest clothing her standards allow, and cuddles the tiny new-born. The way she turns her head away when I front her is telling. I eye the baby in her lap. She’s clean and wearing a fresh nappy. Kristine’s mental turmoil isn’t preventing her looking after the kid anyway. I give the tot a little wave.

There’s only so much silent treatment I will stand for. I should open a conversation with her about some of the stuff I’d been through. I mean, Jesus! The past few days have been life-changing. I fume to myself while standing there, opening and closing my mouth, mulling over how to start.

“Stop standing there. Stop looking at me.”

Her angry words untie my tongue. I’m confident she’ll have to forgive me after hearing my extraordinary exploits. She’ll snap out of her depression when the sheer incredibility of my transformation and exultant victory is told.

“You won’t believe what happened...”

Kristine stands up, 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. Maybe I started the story wrong. The excitement of relating the discovery of my telepathic skills and monster killing activities wanes. Kristine is going to need a little longer to get over what I’d done to Shanna.

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 out fighting the good fight. Maybe I’ll give it another go later. I’ll need time to work out a way to explain my underhanded tactics of drugging her, killing her possessed girlfriend and breaking her spirit. I’ll do this after I clean up the site where I’d burned Shanna’s dismembered body.

(Chapter 93)

Chapter 91 - Facing My Guilt

(INDEX)

The ramifications of this discovery seize and loosen my knees randomly, resulting in a stiff-legged, geriatric robot walk. The conflicting urges to fight and flee are maddeningly equal. I lean across one of the double doors and peek through the gap, inviting a severe fright if anything should lurk close by on the other side.

No monsters await me. No sounds or movements either. Only the calling cards of the intruders are visible. Dragged feet marks and scuffed shoe prints are scattered in the dust all the way down the corridor.

Masochism goads me to slip inside. I jam the gun barrel between my legs and purposefully entomb us further by locking the doors with loud metallic clicks that echo in the cavernous hush. The baby senses a change of atmosphere and her whimpers cease abruptly. A last cry dies in her throat, causing my fright meter to bang against its stop.

The baby’s scrunched up eyes open and find mine expectantly, as if seeking reassurance. I have none to spare. Holding up a finger to my lips with the improbable hope she does understand the situation, I listen hard. The utter silence is worse than the irritating background drone of her crying.

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

I’d renamed the first checkpoint ‘The Wagon Wheel’ due to its layout. The central hub is an impervious, glass-encased, octagonal office. Corridors radiate from it in spokes, providing for staff access and limiting unauthorised movement to and from every part of the building. At the moment nobody occupies the guard office, or the circular ring around it.

On the opposite side of the guard room are two stout, barred doors. They stand wedged open; in violation of both the original rules and my own. I can clearly see myself leaving every door in this position when I left. Paranoia has not been able to curb my laziness when under the influence of chemicals. The Creeps hadn’t even needed to search the place. I’d left them one direct route to travel, and they’d taken it.

Furious at myself, I kick out the chocks and swing these doors closed as well, drawing small comfort that the compartmentalised nature of the building allows me to lock down each area from here. For now I decide not to use the alternative routes. I follow the Creep’s tracks; using the most direct path to our quarters.

Hopelessness builds but the importance of witnessing Kristine’s fate cannot be explained. If she’s been turned and now wanders the earth in that undead state, I will end her suffering. I owe her that much; and so very much more.

I labour up stairs and down corridors. Journey’s end arrives as a four way intersection. The ways ahead and to the left are shut and locked. But the third leads to the penultimate door of our quarters. I moan. It is pressed against the wall, pinned by a milk crate full of golf balls.

Rounding the corner, I move on pure momentum, primed and aching to blast whatever creatures gather here. But the short corridor leading to the final security door is empty. The tension and fear I’ve used unsparingly to get me this far call a confused conference. I turn and back down the empty aisle, covering the way I’d come, thinking hard. All rooms along the route were empty. Where could the Creeps possibly hide? Unless...

Halfway to the staff wing door I turn again, carefully scrutinising the blue, steel-cored door. The Hosts certainly got this far. The stench of human waste and body odour hangs in the air. Dirty handprints cover the walls. The floor is slippery with instinctual releases of urine.

Yet, the Staff Quarters door is shut tight and undamaged. I would never, and I mean never, have left that door chocked. Or had I? Here is a maddening blacked out section of memory. A threatening mental explosion only requires the gentlest nudge against its detonator.

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

Then there’s the other possibility. Kristine heard them tapping and shuffling around out here and opened the door, thinking it was me. Trust my pessimistic streak to kick the shit out of hope.

I prop the shot gun against the wall. It seems the better choice compared to putting the baby on the unsanitary floor. The proximity card between my teeth is slick with dribble. I take it from my mouth and find the right key by feel. My eyes are constantly moving, on everything but the lock.

The double-row key zips home and I twist hard; braced to slam it shut and run if need be. Dead silence, warm air and the smell of spoiled food are the only hostile things that rush out at me. The anticipated surprise party from Hell is not in full swing. No-one is in the kitchen.

The shotgun trembles when I force it to lead this expedition. I swing its deadly snout to cover innocent, humming appliances and sidle in behind it. An impatient door closer ushers me through, pushing hard against my heels until the lock snaps closed. Extending the gun at full reach I centre the gun on the swinging doors that leads into the lounge room. Sighting down the barrel with painfully widened eyes, I gently part them.

The skinny vertical slice of the room beyond reveals it as dishevelled. But it too lacks the level of destruction I’d expect from an army of Hosts rampaging through here. No ghostly presence shows their face.

My attempted covert entry is spoiled when the doors flap noisily behind me. There’s a noise from Kristine’s room! An all too familiar pre-killing coldness spreads across my brain as her door dramatically creaks open. Broken-nailed fingers wrap around the jam, supporting a slow moving body as she shuffles out.

I squeeze the baby tighter and snug the gun’s butt into my shoulder; prepared to fire while swallowing an emotional knot in my throat.

Kristine emerges, pushing stringy hair aside that covers 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 and hold the wrapped baby out to her. Kristine involuntarily takes hold of 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 razor slashed feet and see Heaven. My unmade bed and dirty sheets are achingly beautiful. I fall towards...

(Chapter 92)

Chapter 90 - A Fearful Homecoming

(INDEX)

Sodden selfishness protects me from sharp-edged guilt that should be cutting deeper. I bury this dangerous bundle carelessly into the depths of my flimsy cardboard mind so I can concentrate on driving.

The route becomes more familiar with each turn. As the need to focus on the route lessens, self-pity increases. Numbly selecting gears on cue, I glance occasionally at the child. The truck’s vibrations and harsh suspension try her patience. She digs deeply into a large repertoire of screams and cries, in yet another detailed critique of my driving skills.

I’m powerless to quieten her; too engrossed with steering to provide a moment of comfort. The crying becomes a background noise until an extended period of quiet breaks me from a daze. Her little hand has found the furry fake rabbit’s foot attached to my pocket-knife. It has never brought me luck. If it keeps her amused she can have it.

As if cued by superstitious portents, a pure white cat crosses the road in front of us. Is that some sort of twisted symbolism? Can a white cat signal a reversal of our failing fortunes? Or is it just a scared moggy, running from humans who once nurtured it? Owners who now attack warm-blooded creatures on sight.

I’m too tired and jaded to read anything more into this rare sighting. The disinterest clears my mind. We’re 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 stepped into the ground. Its valiant resistance before total surrender is told by ragged scraps of clothing that flutter in broken wire hooks; trophies clawed from passing Creeps who’d found its weakest link and then trampled it down.

I turn in and idle at the untouched gate, grimacing at the grey facility in its encroaching ocean of greenery. Swiping the proximity card allows us entry and I’m silently grateful for the Creeps’ ignorance about our reliance on electricity. Their strategic damage of our machinery would have brought us undone well before now.

On the way up the driveway my darting eyes work overtime to populate the wild foliage on both sides with moving figures. Every movement tugs at my peripheral vision, though each occasion is belatedly dismissed as a waving tree branch or a shifting shadow. The false alarms stress my core resolve to save Kristine. 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. And sadly, it’s only the cold, logical part of me, knowing we lack the fuel and energy to do so, that stops me from running.

By force of habit I back the truck onto the dock, pushing the sun-glasses over my brow when shadows fold around the windscreen. The mirror reflects my worry and fright back at me until I tilt it away. Rear bumper meets rubber stoppers before I’m ready and the engine stalls.

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. The bare skin of my butt unpeels from vinyl with a tearing sound. If that was unpleasant, hopping to the ground provides the agony needed to stoke an angry fire. At least rage keeps me from collapsing. Shoving the huge dock gates crashes them shut. They lock automatically with the sound of a condemned man’s cell-door slamming for the last time.

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

A convenient wall supports me on a slow journey to the dock steps. A forgotten baby senses abandonment, stalling me halfway with muffled bawling. She also reminds me I’ve left the shotgun and keys in the truck. Shit!

Returning, I retrieve two desirable items and one that isn’t. In the absence of pockets, and before I run out of hands, I clamp the swipe-card between my teeth. The attached keys stab my chin and cheeks as I violently twist my neck to check every possible hiding spot around me. I’m on high alert for an ambush.

I tuck the fragile baby beneath one arm, and the gun under the other. Each is held with the same amount of force and both stay fairly quiet, even with rough handling. Mounting the dock involves a mountainous trek of singly taken steps. I look up gratefully from the fifth and last one, 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 the white-painted concrete embellish the groan-inducing answer with a chilling gut punch. The Creeps are inside!

(Chapter 91)

Chapter 89 - Back Behind The Wheel

(INDEX)

My beautiful, beaten up truck is right where I’d left it; wedged between a pair of broken gates. We approach, feeling my soles tacking in sticky scraps of meat and blood that cover the ground. Gnawed bones are also scattered about. Presumably the remains of a stack of dead Hosts I’d shot have been snacked on after my departure.

Before reaching the cab, I squat to survey the interior of the shade house, and listen carefully. Surprises at this point will not be tolerated. A closer bang from a familiar rifle makes me jump and curse. OK, time to go. Opening the truck’s door, I 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 was a rare and fortunate event.

I turn the key until the glow plug symbol goes out, and 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 or risk stranding us at the first speed bump we hit.

I squeeze through the gap between the bent and bloodied gate and truck, watching every direction at once for unfriendlies. Torn shade-cloth moves trickily in the light breeze.

My shotgun lays where it had fallen; next to a torn, burnt, and bloodied jumper of multiple colourations. For some reason the sight of the stylised bird pattern knitted into it draws my attention. I hadn’t noticed it during my killing spree. It weighs on my mind until I catch sight of myself in a large, wrought-iron edged mirror. I stretch out the front of the purple creation I’m wearing and stare at the dirty white duck embossed on its front.

The synchronicity and disquieting coincidence troubles me. Sometimes I even attribute these spooky coincidences to higher beings who play with me for their own amusement. I shake my head at this nonsense then pick up the shotgun and collect the loose cartridges from the ground. Reloading the gun by feel, I scurry to an intact corner of the greenhouse and look towards the back fence.

The red-faced, rifle-toting old 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 his reaction is priceless. He stops, uncomprehendingly, and then drops his rifle-crutch to reach for the sky in surrender.

Uninterested in prisoners, I fire again. The double-naught buckshot tears through the air around him. Damn barrel must be bent; I’m still aiming at his head. He takes heed of my third shot and turns tail.

Angry at being chased so far for no good reason I fire one more cartridge, shrugging when fleeing figure doesn’t fall. Putting the weirdo out of my thoughts, I sigh deeply and return to the back of the truck and activate the electric motor that lifts the ramp. As the metal plate whines up I shift and twirl nervously to keep a look out. Paranoia builds until an expectation of impending doom cannot be calmed by lip-biting alone. The ramp isn’t quite closed before I give in to the fear.

The rubberised controller bangs against the side of the truck when I drop it and scrape through the fence gap. I’m hyperventilating as I clamber aboard the truck; my head full of the most efficient sequence to get us rolling.

I’d almost forgotten about the baby. At the last moment stop myself from sitting on her. I reach under my hovering butt to scoop her up, and then let myself fall back heavily. A quick look at the glove box is rejected as inappropriate for her placement. The capacious document tray is the next best spot. I displace most of the sharp objects, place her inside, slam my door shut, and slap down the lock.

Thus secured I let in the clutch and punch the maxi-brake button. We’re moving! The pall of doom departs and my tattered courage returns. Flagging spirits are bolstered by each revolution of the wheels and each second that passes without destruction raining down upon us.

The truck engine growls smoothly under load. Whatever is on board is heavy and loosely packed. I drive carefully and think bad thoughts. Is Kristine alive? Is she hurt? Or worse; is she now one of them?

(Chapter 90)

Chapter 88 - Chased to A Miracle

(INDEX)

It’s the nursery where I’d been captured. Is this sign a mirage? A trick? A flashback? Am I really having a nice lie down somewhere, dreaming?

Hot sunshine burns into my face, thawing icicles of disbelief that lock me in place. I lean down and look over the top of my stupid sunnies to re-read the last faded line: ‘1.3 kilometres, left turn Hanson Street’. Yes, I think I can just about manage that distance, if I walk slowly.

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

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

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

Oh, that’s just great. A religious nut. Admittedly our new world is rife with mental instability, but I resent him using God’s name to justify murdering me. I dread those tainted by religion almost as much as the Creeps. With no laws to reign in their beliefs I have found some of them partial to earthly cleansing of non-believers. This old, broken-minded freak will probably track me to the ends of the earth. Why can’t he shoot in one direction and run in the other, like I always do?

Though bruised and battered, my feet cover distance faster than his acute limp. I hop between grassy tufts that sprout from cracks in the asphalt and concrete, weaving around trees and power poles to frustrate a clean shot from behind. Then I take a brief breather behind a post office box to update myself on the loony’s progress.

As expected he’s still coming; gamely swinging that dicky leg. He spots my 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 the Hosts something else around here. I race off, which in my state means a fast walk; but I 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 this direction has fewer houses to 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 roadside concealments and strike out across a thickly grassed stretch of land adjoining the nursery. 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 set firmly against my back, speeding my pace so far. Such haste can only encourage an accident.

The rolling echo of that high powered rifle being fired at me again discourages these contemplations. Even if doesn’t shoot me those gun shots will attract every Creep in the vicinity. Very cautiously I grab a handful of barbed wire and swing my manhood carefully over. It’s too late to tense when the whipping sound of a bullet passing close by is trailed by yet another cracking report.

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 which makes me a very tiny target. But Bad Luck’s hand usually rigs the roulette wheel of my life choices, and its million-to-one odds pay out more often than I like. I hunker, thinking small, while scurrying towards the nursery.

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 since been called away. Probably that massive redeployment back to the hive. An occurrence I promptly take the credit for.

Arriving back at the very spot I’d been taken from is surreal. Only one day has passed and so much has happened to me. I get dizzy thinking about it.

(Chapter 89)

Chapter 87 - Lucky Break

(INDEX)

Ignoring the tyres loud vandalism of the car’s duco, I feed on the power. We fish-tail along a Creep’s trampled dual laneway, marking our own passage with pieces of hot rubber and scouring the car’s underside with long grass. A hidden roadside kerb announces itself by crashing hard against the chassis. New noise and sparks fly when the exposed wheel rim bites bitumen.

A slight rise in the landscape displays sprawling suburbia. It is a directionless maze of endless cul-de-sacs and traffic calming circuits. Without a map to guide me I am clueless which way to turn.

Unfazed by the richness of choices before me, our speed does not decrease. I grimly guide the car against its strongest suicidal urges but allow it to swerve us into a side street rather than fight the wheel too much.

Losing sight of the riled-up throng of battered Creeps behind us is pleasing. The choice of escape route is less endearing. A thick delta of silt, gouged from collapsed retaining walls, spills across the road. Seeds have sprouted readily in the loose soil, forming a solid curtain of green.

My heavy right foot forces the engine to drag its injured rear end ever faster. We hit the feathered edge of the earth bank and wheel-spin races the engine. The car’s spoiler mows a bouncing track through fledgling shrubs. We breach the far side of what proves to be a small island of dirt at a decreased speed. I improve our forward rate with a downshift and more revs; therefore hitting the fallen tree that blocks our path directly behind a final veil of grass is inevitable.

I cut left to avoid the thickest part of the trunk and crash through the dried leaf crown. Brittle limbs shatter and snap in a noisy explosion. The windscreen crazes, unable to absorb these blows from large branches. I turn my head from the breaking glass and the baby catches my eye. She looks accusingly at me, as if I’m driving like an idiot on purpose. For good measure a front tyre blows, totally relieving me of any semblance of control.

I am totally resigned to this development. But, for the child’s benefit I feign surprise as this second deflation rips the steering wheel out of my hands. We careen into the gutter, sidestepping a sudden stop against an immovable power pole, purely by Luck. Or, more likely, due to Bad-Luck’s poor management.

Grabbing the rattled child, I eject from our broken craft as if emergency trained. A circular, indecisive dance ends in a dash for the nearest downhill abode. A steeply plunging driveway delivers us heavily against the front door which is secured firmly against riff-raff such as me. I wrench at it anyway, hoping the lock will give from sheer force of need alone.

That hope bears no fruit and, not for the first time, I curse other people’s security-consciousness. Whatever TV shows depict, it isn’t that easy to break into a house; especially when your housebreaking equipment consists of a woollen jumper and a tired baby. It’s amazing how many people believed they’d be returning home someday to resume their normal lives. It’s beside the point that I locked my own door when I left my flat; even though all the windows had already been broken by looters.

Though shielded from the road by a riot of healthy shrubbery, I take us further from the crash scene by jogging around the house and down a mossy garden path. The backyard is growing with unrestrained exuberance. Shrubs invade the overgrown lawn with long-stemmed untidiness. Entangled vines drape down from full gutters. I draw confidence from the need to break through spider-webs across the path and note undisturbed fluffy-headed weeds. These indicators mean no one has been here recently.

Covered in web and seed I arrive puffing at the rear entrance. This door also resists hard tugs at its handle, without a hint of give. Unsure of the next move I shift my burning, bare feet restlessly and look around the yard. A hose attached to the rainwater tank enrages a desert dry thirst. Abraded soles that cook on hot concrete are forgotten when I scamper to it and twist the tap.

I greet the green slime that plops from the hose with disgust. Ripping the hose from its spigot is a timely solution that releases a clear stream of water. I kneel in fresh mud to suckle directly from the plastic fitting, like an infant on a teat. Rehydrating is a sensual experience. By the time my thirst is quenched I am overfull and gasping for air. A loud burp resounds.

The baby coos and I look down at her flaky, brown crusted head. A tiny tongue protrudes to lick at splashes that fall from my chin.

“You thirsty too?”

In the interest of hygiene I splash a palm-full of water across her face to remove the Parasite shit first. It gets up her nose, causing spluttering, and begins another round of mechanical mewling.

The water reactivates a sickening stench from our suits of dried-on scum. She reeks! We both do. Even more noticeably now we are in fresh air. Placing the kid on the damp ground, I rinse off my face as well. It feels so good I stick my head under the stream and agitate crusty hair. Although I’m aware our location is unsecure, getting this stuff off my face is suddenly vitally important.

I unwind the baby’s cloth and notice that she has added some of her own mess to the mix. Washing her butt triggers more crapping and I get some on my clean hands. She’s pooping a black, tarry substance! I worry at my ignorance of what colour baby crap should be.

“You got more shit on me. Thanks a bunch.”

She squirms and ignores my worried frown. I noticed that the slightest change to her world is subject to tight shut eyes and loud crying, rather than logical enquiry. At least we have something in common then.

I re-wrap the child in her wet cloth and long for alcohol and a few bolstering pills. Holing up in this house is an attractive proposition. But I know Creeps always follow prey to the last known sighting. They will haunt this area, making a nuisance of themselves for many days. Even if their previous behaviour is no longer the norm, for now I must assume they still work to this pattern.

My new sweater is even more uncomfortable now that it is soaked. And it itches abominably. I scratch my chest while tiptoeing through tangled greenery to a concealed side gate. The hinges squeal like a stuck pig when I ease it open. After checking that no Creeps are in sight, I guiltily trot off up the street, leaving the steaming getaway car in our wake.

A few streets on, I spot a secretive movement behind a makeshift wall of bits and pieces. A man’s bobbing head, grizzled by an unkempt beard, fearfully glares at us over the top of a forty-four gallon drum. I smile in relief. His delightfully human expression of fright means he is not a Creep. He can help us, harbour us, and take care of the child during my oncoming mental collapse. I display the child and grin in friendly welcome.

Most unexpectedly a bullet whines past my ear. I don't think it was a warning shot either. The baby clutches my damp jumper when I drop her to my chest and scarper. Fierce swearing and more bullets determine our zigzagging course down the street.

Over a puffing kilometre later I resentfully empathise with our attacker’s viewpoint. He’d seen a fat dude covered in shit, wearing a daggy purple sweater, love-heart shaped sunnies and no pants! Shooting at us is hard to forgive, but I realise that looking like I do, I should expect to be shot even in a time before the Parasite invasion.

The adrenaline rush wears off and the baby’s weight drags at my arms. I look around for a place to rest and see an impossible sign. I walk towards the faded, nondescript advertisement, featuring amateurishly depicted palm trees and four incredible, troublesome words: The Golden Pine Nursery.

(Chapter 88)