Arcturus
Prologue
And what could be the worst thing on earth? What could be more frightening than the things you imagine? Than the images you conjure in your mind? Something worse than any creature – than any living thing? Crueller than an animal – mercilessly unaffected by pain, by suffering and torment? A capacity for violence that is unfathomable, a lack of empathy incomprehensible. Worse than a beast – some mindless creature. Able to conduct acts of torture on one another, to starve and isolate, to strip away a mind. To humiliate, mortify, to mock. To feel hatred. Capable of experiencing loathe, spite. A sense of detachment, able to turn away in the face of pleas, to watch emotionlessly as others beg, writhe in agony. Able to process thought, emotion, able to feel conscience – able to understand what is wrong, what is evil? Because you already know.
A human. We are the worst things on earth.
Chapter 1
Present
There’s something about the cars. It’s almost difficult to express.
Because I can look at the bodies. The mass of the dead – heaped together like trash, cluttered waste. There’s nothing redeeming about the bodies. The skin isn’t skin – its decayed flesh. Rotten, discoloured. Limbs strewn, bloodied, torn. I can walk past that with indifference.
There’s nothing human about the bodies. The sight of them is disassociated with a human, a person. They litter the streets, and yet if you saw them – you would think they were simply that; litter.
The land is barren, dry and bleak. The grass is dead, parched and withered in the heat of the sun. The streets empty, desolate; gnarled foliage overgrowing, their weeds seeping into the cracks in the pavements, crawling up the sides of deserted buildings. Wilted flowers, lifeless from the lack of water, crushed petals littering the ground. The trees, wildly unkempt, towering as they break through the asphalt, their trunks thick, their roots knotted, twisted, imbedded in the tarmac.
The cars, though. There’s something unexplainable in the cars. The way they lie, abandoned, some overturned, but most simply stranded, with all their doors left opened. As if people had got out and just ran, not looking back.
The way the contents spill from inside; blankets, bumper seats, suitcases and bags. Teddy bears and clothes, books and photo frames left discarded. As though people had dropped things in their haste – their palpable terror. As if they hadn’t stopped to carry their belongings with them.
There is something so obviously human in the cars. I never knew the world had so many cars, and yet they’re everywhere, with proof of mankind’s existence. Worse – proof of mankind’s desperation, the urgent scramble for escape. Something in the sight screams ‘there isn’t time, there isn’t time.’
In the eerie silence, you can hear humanity. For me, it’s the only thing of humanity that’s left.
*
I suppose, to survive an apocalypse, there are rules. Before, we were told, stay indoors, do not panic, remain calm, wait for further information. Stay indoors, remain calm.
A natural disaster, a war. Not this. There are no rules in this.
I don’t know what they are. The diseased, the infected. You wouldn’t be able to tell. Cannibalistic animals – undead, psychotic, ravenous, rabid.
Monsters. The only word that comes close to the description. Zombie. And even then – it’s not quite correct. Close, but not enough. Some are different from others. Some are slow; making pained noises, hurt movements. Others are quick, growling; hungry. Each one seems different, moving in a different crowd of them. The virus, the parasitic disease, must affect the brain in different ways.
One thing that will be the same for all of them, however. In this apocalypse, you have to. Be able. To run.
*
Something that surviving gives you is awareness – a hyper sensitivity to your surroundings, a near constant jerkiness. Sometimes it’s frustrating and embarrassing but mostly – it’s life-saving.
I hear the noise instantly, a thud, then the cried, “Jake!”
The dull thump of dragged, slow feet.
I’m up and rushing toward the sound before I’ve even thought, and the sight – Sam, bat in hand, held out to the thing, unharmed, settles the pounding in my ears.
I raise my gun immediately, before I halt. This one seems slower, wounded, tired. The image doesn’t lend to your darkest nightmares, a shuffling, ungainly, lumbering idiot, and yet I see the tremors that pass through Sam’s small body, the way he can hardly keep a hold on the bat.
I can’t see what he sees. His eyes, wide, muscles locked in shock – staring at something that I don’t see. Some monster, resembling a human – under the guise of a person. Something that’ll hurt him; that has hurt him.
I see a thing, an animal, half-dead, something that needs to be taken down. I need him to see that. I don’t want it to be scary for him anymore. I don’t want him to be scared.
“Ah, c’mon.” I say, strolling lazily into the room. Sam glances and immediately comes to me, terror wrote large on his face. “You again?” I address the thing above his head, as Sam’s fingers grip my t-shirt, pushing his wet face into me.
“I told you, man.” I heave a put upon sigh, all the while pushing Sam behind my back, and dodge the first blundering swipe. “I don’t taste so good.” I shrug, helpless.
There’s a nervous laugh pressed into my ribs – more of a wet, surprised cough than anything. I grin. “You gotta believe me.” I say, and I feel the way Sam smiles.
The thing shuffles forward, groaning, and I give Sam a gentle push away before dancing in the other direction. “I know, I know, it’s tough.” I hold my hands up. “You put yourself out there, you get rejected.” I say, sweat breaking across my brow as I leap from place to place, the thing advancing. “Hey, we’ve all been there.” I pat its shoulder sharply.
Sam is outright giggling now, stifling it with a fist. I throw a careless grin to him, still avoiding the lacklustre blows. I want to show him that they aren’t scary. I want him to see they don’t hold the power of fear.
There’s a low, woeful moan, followed by a shuffled attempt at grabbing me.
“I’m sorry, dude!” I laugh. “I just ain’t inter’ested. It’s never gonna happen. We’re just too different, we’re going different ways. I’m doing my own thing now. You just gotta to let me go.”
Sam laughs highly, this happy, free sound, body shaking as he tries to hold his laughter in.
“You gotta stop coming to my place. Gotta stop calling, gotta stop with the following me around, the stalking. You’re scaring my lil’ brother, man. You know?” I purse my mouth in a sympathetic expression, gesture over to Sam. “Maybe it’s time to go home?”
It snarls and lunges, but I’m faster. I need him to understand that we are faster.
“Wow, hey, I’m tryn’a let you down gentle!” I shout, laughing, and Sam laughs with me. “Not a fan of the tough love?”
I’m not going to be able to keep this up much longer. The intent is clear in its eyes. “Okay, okay, swift and simple, I see. You’d rather I was just honest?”
In lieu of answering, it swings an arm with more force. “Okay.” I agree. “Sammy, you come here?”
Sam moves forward, and I just manage to wind an arm around his head and press it into my stomach before I raise the gun, shove the nozzle to its skull and shoot.
Chapter 2
This isn’t a world for an eight year old. You know that thought passes through my head every day.
As we’re boarding up the windows for the night, cramming into the kitchen cupboard and holding each other, hands over mouths. As we eat with our fingers, starving, anything we can find. As we run, always running. I try to make it a game – laugh, tagging him. But he knows – and he runs.
And he is so scared; I see the fear on his face every day. This isn’t a world for an eight year old.
*
“Please, Jake.”
“Sammy, I’ve said no.”
“Jake!” He cries. “I –”
“Sam.” I state, harsh, and level him a look. “You’re not coming hunting.”
“But – it’s boring –”
“Tough.”
“And when you go, there are noises, it’s so scary –”
“Sam.” I begin, and stop. “I – I tell you to go hide.” I lower my voice gently.
“I do.” He says, and looks up with his huge brown eyes, like a baby deer. His ears even stick out like one.
I bite my lip, indecisive. “Okay.” I huff, and he squirms in delight. “But – listen to every word I say, stay near, run –”
“I know!” He wails dramatically as if this is killing him, tugging on my pant leg. I laugh at his theatrics. “C’mon, c’mon!”
*
I knew it was going to be a disaster. I’m not an idiot. We’re in and out in maybe ten minutes, but Sam is still crying half an hour later.
“They were – so close – I th-thought –”
His breath hitches with unrestrained sobs, and I rub his back.
“I know, I know, but I told you Sammy. I told you what the cities are like. Overrun with them. You wanted to see.” I speak calmly, although my own heart is still clubbing painfully. God, but so close. He had tripped, and for that moment, I swear time ceased.
“I so – I’m sorry –”
“Shh, shh.” I soothe, rocking him back and forth. After a few hours he goes lax against me, body a soft, warm weight. I carry him to the cupboard, cram us both inside.
*
I wake in the middle of the night. I wake to some strange, disorientated sense that something is wrong. That’s when I realise Sam isn’t in my arms.
And then I hear a soft, snorting, gurgling sound – the sound of eating.
I reach my gun, softly, softly stand and creep towards the basement. One foot at a time on each stair. There’s a figure hunched over, eating from its hands. It’s too dark to see anything. Not breathing, I switch on the light.
Sam is shovelling tinned beans into his mouth.
I deflate. “For Jesus Christ.” I exhale, scrubbing my eyes.
He blinks widely. “I’m sorry.”
That’s when I realise he’s eaten most of our stock. Cans lay open across the floor.
“Sam!” I try to hiss. “You – what the hell have you done?”
“I’m sorry.” He repeats.
“You’ve eaten basically all of our emergency stock!”
“I – I was hungry –”
“And I’m not? You don’t think I’m starving, Sam? I can’t believe you!” I gesticulate furiously.
“I just – I was so hungry, Jake.”
I open my mouth, but stop. I come closer. “Sammy.” I start. “How – how did you get these open?”
Sam blinks. “I.” He looks down at his hands, bloody and torn. “I.”
I sit, crouch beside him. “Hey, Sammy.” I say gently. He looks at me, and his eyes are huge. Not his normal wide-eyed fear. His pupils are blown.
“Sam.” I start softly. “When you fell today, what happened?”
“I – I just tripped on the ground but I got back up and then you caught me.” He explains in a rush.
“What – where did you fall?” I swallow. “Did you fall – in any blood? Sticky stuff? Any kind of fluid, Sammy?”
He looks at me; just looking. Then his breathing speeds.
“Sammy, Sammy, stop, its okay.” I begin. It’s not happening, this isn’t happening.
“Jake – “, he starts.
“No, no. It’s alright. Let’s get cleaned up.”
I wash him in silence. I scrub his skin raw, his hair, into his scalp. He starts to drool; his jaw unhinges and gapes open, his saliva running down his chin. I shake my head, scrub harder.
Then he starts huffing, making these soft, unconscious grunts.
I leave him, and come back with the mask. He stares at me, unfocused, before his eyes snap to awareness and his face shifts – horror dawning.
“Sammy, stop.” I say firmly. “This is just a precaution. And then I’m going to fix you, and everything is going to be okay.”
“I’m scared.” He tells me.
“Me too.” I say honestly, because he deserves it. “But I know everything is going to be fine. This is just for a little while. It’s just so you don’t hurt yourself.”
I fasten the straps, pull the leather over his mouth. Sam closes his eyes, and when he opens them, they’re shining; wet. He looks like a muzzled dog, helpless and afraid. His eyes are so human – in the sight of his unshed tears, his stark fear. They’re so innocent.
I take him out the bath, dry him down with a towel. Then I sit on the bathroom floor, holding him.
“It’s okay, Sammy.” I say, as he starts to struggle. In some moments he regains himself – and he looks at me with sorrow, crying. And then he thrashes, trying to escape.
“Sammy, don’t be scared. Please don’t be scared.”
He starts up a low level groaning. He’s crying and groaning, sobbing the more he makes his involuntary noises.
“Don’t be scared. You’re okay, Sammy. I love you.” I rock him mindlessly, clench my jaw and tighten my arms. “You don’t need to be scared anymore. There’s nothing scary anymore. Okay? You’re going to be okay now. You’ll never have to be scared again. There’s nothing to be scared of now.”
It felt like it would kill me to do it, but I somehow managed to lift my trembling arm, to hold the gun to his soft ear, his temple.
“It’s not scary anymore, I love you, I love you. You’re okay, you’re alright, you’re okay.” I press my face to his hair, smelling of soap. “You’re okay, you’re okay.” I say, rocking him. “I love you, Sammy. You’re alright, you’re alright. ”
I do it.
Chapter 3
It’s been sixty four days.
I’m ruthless in hunting, numb. There is nothing left of mankind. Not even me. Sam was the only remaining symbol – innocent, pure, kind. He will never be one of them. Even as he was becoming one, even as he felt the hunger of them, gnawing, insatiable, he left me, to find beans. He was closer to me than food, and yet he left.
I have never known anything more innocent. In this world, there is nothing like the innocence of that.
I was wrong when I said the cars were the last thing left. Because now that he’s gone, I see that there is nothing as human as him.
But he doesn’t live in fear now. He doesn’t have to experience that anymore. He’s safe, and he’s not scared. This world that’s left for him isn’t for an eight year old. He doesn’t belong here. He belongs where he is now, where nothing will hurt him.
*
In the city, I try a different route, and it’s a mistake. I’m fast, but only just. They swarm like flies, insects, in hundreds. I find a fire escape and manage to climb. Their teeth snap at my heels, desperate.
I climb to the top of the building. And I can see them all, thousands of them. All scrambling and clawing their way up. I feel pity. That’s all I can manage to feel. Pity, and shame.
Is this what we’ve come to? Is this what we are?
Humanity. The superior beings. The highest level of intelligence, of consciousness. The most empathetic creatures. The greatest animal on the planet. A human.
And yet we are so destructive. If we didn’t exist, all other life forms would flourish. Every single species of animal would thrive. Do you not find that sad? Does that not sadden you? We take up so much space.
How are we great? In what way are we great? What have we done, not for ourselves – not in medical advances and technological feats? What have we done for the world – for the earth? What even have we done for each other?
Nothing. We do nothing. We torture, massacre, inflict pain and suffering, war and grief. The greatest acts of humanity, man’s wondrous acts of kindness – what are they?
I feel the sun on my face, the warmth like a physical touch. I smile, tilt my head up towards it. Lift a hand, splay my fingers wide.
In our extinction, I hope the world evolves to create something better than us. I hope evolution goes further than mankind, to create a being incapable of disease, incapable of spite, of malice. Incapable of conscience – of understanding right and wrong, thus incapable of committing evil. Incapable of sin.
Incapable of fear. I close my eyes. Breathe, and walk closer to the edge.
I hear distant noise, and keep my eyes closed. Only the noise is coming closer, impossibly so.
I open my eyes in time to see a helicopter. I blink, as it lowers in the sky. As a man reaches for me, drags me inside. I’m numb, watching the city fall away, all of the – all of them, as they fall away, so small from this distance, growing further and further away. Everything is so small. My world, crumbling before me. All I’ve known for the last four years, falling away. Something grips me – the sight of my life falling away before my eyes, becoming less and less distinct.
I want back, I want to go back. I can’t leave, suddenly I’m more terrified of that thought than of anything in my whole life. I struggle against the hold on me, screaming the words, clawing and kicking. I want to go back, let me go back. I need to go back, let me –
*
Epilogue
2 months
The strangest thing is that I miss it. The familiar routine, the comforting lull of motion, always moving, doing something – hunting, cooking, cleaning, opening blinds, closing blinds, securing the locks, boarding the windows.
In the hospital, all I do is sit, numb. They ask me questions – so many questions. So many people, all asking questions.
And I stare, blink dumbly, my jaw working, unable to speak. All I do is stare in disbelief. Eyes wide open, always open. If I close them they could disappear. The others always did. But they stay, patiently waiting, notepad in hand.
My throat constricts, closes up. My eyes burn with grit. I can only stare at them.
In the place – the underground facility – there are so many people. All of them moving, living, being. I can’t understand. My brain can’t comprehend. We’re alive. We’ve survived this. I cannot believe – this was our annihilation. But we’ve survived.
They ask me if I can remember – any little detail, any slight observation. Anything that will give them some sort of insight, an idea on the disease. Any passing thought. They understand. It takes time. Shock and grief can make a person’s mind and body shut down. And I’m the only one they’ve managed to recover from the city. The people here went into hiding, fled to the military bases. They never expected to find anyone. It’s a wonder that I’m alive, uninfected, uninjured. But can I remember anything?
I blink, and stare. The man sighs. He’s going to try again tomorrow. I need to eat something, get some rest.
I can remember everything.
And I miss it.
I miss the chilly cold of our cabin, burrowing under blankets. I miss running, joyfully running, feet smacking tarmac. Sprinting, pulse hammering behind my ears, laughter bubbling with the freedom of it, the chase. I miss the gnawing hunger, the perpetual hollow emptiness, the ecstasy of finding food. The blandest flavours bursting to life on your tongue. The happiness over the smallest of discoveries, the simplest pleasures.
I miss the fear. That’s the thing I miss the most. And I think that’s the craziest one of all.
The fear that rushes through you like a static shock. That lives in your veins, keeping you in a constant state of adrenaline, as though your engine’s been revved up and left with the key in the ignition. It shakes you apart, that feeling, the hot-cold flush of terror. But it’s strangely addictive.
In living without it, it feels as though something is missing. Without fear, I’m left bereft. Without the sharp jolt of terror at every noise during the night; hugging him tight to me in the cupboard, knees pressed, holding his ears, stroking his hair. No. What I miss most is my brother.
*
