1 November 2012
It hobbled across the kitchen, the foul stink of rot and decay seeping from it. Teeth bared, it hissed and moaned, a prowling hunger in its gut. 'Brains,' it growled.
I stared at this creature in the reflection of the kitchen door. It was me, of course.
'Brains!' I lamented angrily - if I had any, I'd never have attempted to empty Nan's bin when the flimsy sack was so overloaded. The last lodger had used it before he left, and the contents were now runny and stinking - and on the legs of my already spoiled jeans. My calf was throbbing, so I shuffled the rest of the bin bag to the kitchen door and dropped it outside. I had been doing some jobs while waiting for the kettle to boil. The hedge trimming had taken longer than expected, and now it was past lunchtime, I was starving.
I hobbled to the cupboard where twenty-two boxes of instant soup were lined up alphabetically from Chicken through to Vegetable. Today definitely felt a bit Minestrone, so I put the kettle on again to reboil. Later, I'd open Nan's freezer... MY freezer... and take one of the stacks of frozen ready meals to have for dinner. I always bought exactly enough for a month as I can't stand shopping. All those bodies pressed together, fighting over cheese and catfood. And things are never organised properly.
My friends call me an obsessive compulsive. At least, they did before I alienated them completely. I suppose they are right. Can't stand mess. Hate the gaudy clutter of variety. That's why I always wear the same three styles of t-shirt and blue jeans. I remember last Christmas when my oldest friend Gus bought me a red hoodie; the look on my face must have given away my dislike of the new and non-regulation garment because he called me an arsehole and threw a mince pie at my head. I think it was the last straw, in hindsight. He was the last of the group to stick by me. I make myself feel better by telling myself that real friends would understand me and might see that I loved them all in the best way I could manage.
Nana used to despair of me. She'd say: "You're young! Have some fun! Smoke something or get some dirty mags and for God's sake, stop being such a tight-arse." I didn't approve of her habits either. She'd have regular drunken binges with her young lodgers, nearly all of who were young and male. When Doctor Laurence the Med. Student came down with 'flu' I walked in on her giving him a graphically explicit bed bath. I used an eyewash for a week. She was arrested for supplying Cousin Whinnie at the old folk's home with Speed. I wanted a sweet, grey, baking Nana. I got a spliff-smoking, good-time granny.
Sipping my cup of soup, I sat at the kitchen T.V. in a clean pair of jeans and watched the news. The aftermath of the recent hurricane overseas was terrible. Environmentalists were once again fearful that global warming was creating a literal hothouse for such superstorms. The extended feature showed how the effects of global warming might one day affect the U.K. With raised sea-levels, many low-lying areas of this green and pleasant land would become blue and fishy. At least this house was good in floods. It was high up, and natural boundaries acted like sandbags. I looked out of the window at doomed Dedcombe Town below. Shame.
I sighed. It was time to tackle the rest of the house. Nana's lodgers weren't known for their cleanliness, and Nana was always too stoned to get the place decorated. I got bin bags, gloves and bleachy spray, then hobbled up to the first floor. I toyed with the idea of getting the cut on my leg seen by a nurse, but there was only the walk-in health centre, which was always loaded with sick people. Sick people make me feel sick, so I decided to apply antiseptic and hope for the best. Besides, from the sounds of the sirens on the lower roads, there must have been some big accident. Traffic would be terrible.
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By the time darkness coiled about the house, compressing the rooms with muscular shadow, a heavy fog had fallen, rendering the street lights weak and milky. At least the first floor was clean.
The doorbell rang. Five blurred shapes were visible through the glass, and it quickly dawned on me that it was Halloween. Normally I would have pretended not to be at home, but it was too late. Panicking, I looked around for something edible or spendable to make them go away and leave me in peace. I briefly considered a blunt object, but that would end in mess, angry parents and police.
I opened the door. Fog slipped in.
Teens. I shuddered. I looked at them as they shouted Trick or Treat...a collection of stringy, vicious monsters... and that was before the costumes. They looked at me, dressed in an apron and still clutching my bleachy spray. A spotty Dracula said: "Hey look - it's the Germinator!"
I rolled my eyes.
"Look, I don't have anything on me for Halloween. I just moved in."
"Yeh, right. Look at the size of this place. You're loaded," a werewolf in braces whined, hand on hips. From somewhere on Lower Glebe Road there was a shrill scream. It was humourless and raw, and ended abruptly. It spooked us all.
"Just give us a fiver and we'll leave. We promise." Two of them were no longer interested, and now I was fed up of the cold air."
"Let's go, Brett," fat FrankenTeen said warily.
"I haven't got anything here. No cash out. I promise," I said, tight-lipped and impatient.
Dracula swore at me under his breath, and exchanging looks with his second-in-command, took out an egg from his pocket. I realised what they were going to do.
"Don't you dare!" I bellowed, chasing them to the gate, where they showered me with flour and eggs. Instinctively, I squeezed the trigger of the bleachy spray. A jet of foamy fluid spattered the back of Dracula's cape and head. Then they were gone, laughing and manic with nervous energy. I shook flour from my hair and slammed the gates. The fog curled silently about the bars.
I fumed, muttering angrily as I swept at the heaps of flour with the dustpan and brush.
Fog changes the acoustic of night streets. Don't know if you ever noticed. It adds the quality of a wet ceiling to sounds, at once making the sounds closer and more intimate. Distant noises are as muffled as the surroundings are misted and indistinct. I did not hear them come.
I smelt them first. An appalling reek which was still somehow diluted in the wet air. The fingers of the fog brought it to me in streaks, making me gag. I assumed it was the Victorian drains.
I had amassed a glutinous heap of egg and flour when I registered the vague scraping and rushing beyond the gate. I was aware of shadows passing across the driveway, picturing trick-or-treaters shuffling their way to diabetic episodes.
It was a movement low to the pavements outside the gate that first caught my attention. I was just about to reach for the dustpan, when I saw the head and shoulders of a man slide into view. The head was face down and moving in a circular motion. Whoever he was lying on the pavement, he was licking at the floor. But why?
The answer occurred to me just as the man looked up. My blood had spattered in small pools earlier in the day. The man had pushed his tongue into these drying patches and reddened his tongue. Except that this was a man no longer. White-glazed eyes, fleshless mouth and jaw, it was a living corpse (and also incidentally the Zumba teacher from the health centre) ... and now it was looking directly at me.
The Perfect House for Floods and Zombies: Chapter Two • Opuss № I