Dead Days (Book 1): Mike (2 page)

My door buzzer shrieks, making me jump.  Feeling foolish, I walk over to the intercom and press the button.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” A female voice, worried.

“Who is this?”

“I- I need some help, my little boy he’s-”

“Who is this?”  I repeat, confused.

“My names Ellen, I- I live a few houses down I’ve been buzzing all the neighbours but I-”

“What do you want?”  I ask, bewildered.  This is pretty weird. I’m starting to get a little freaked out.

“My little boy is sick, I need to get him to hospital but my husband has the car-”

“So call an ambulance?”

“I did!”  She shrieks, and the intercom screeches feedback into my ear.  “999 was busy!  Can you believe that?!”

“That’s impossible!”

“Please you have to believe me, I just need some help I-  Oh God!”  I hear a thumping sound and go to my window, looking onto the street.  I see the woman running from my front door, looking over her shoulder, towards Alan’s front window.

That was bizarre.

I feel a bit guilty, like maybe I should go after her, but I’d never catch her limping like I am, and what could I do if I did?  I don’t have a car and I’m not a doctor.  Still, I hope her kid is alright.

      And what was that about 999 being busy?  I must’ve heard that wrong?  999 doesn’t
get
busy.  That’s sort of the point.

      I try Tess again.  This time the call doesn’t connect.  I don’t have any signal.  I turn the phone off then on again, and this time I have signal, but the phone goes straight to voicemail.

Where the hell is she?

      I hear a loud droning; helicopters.  Things in the capital must be getting worse.  I start thinking maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to visit my parents for a couple of days.  My neighbourhood’s quiet right now but who knows what could happen.

I have to see Tess though. 

Normally I’d take the bus to her flat, but I’m starting to think that public transport might not be reliable today.  I check TFL on the map but the internet is down.  I reset my router but no good.  The service must be patchy.  I can’t walk the whole way, not with my foot like it is.

What then?

Alan has a van, and by the sound of it he’s home today.  Maybe he’ll let me borrow it?  True, I don’t know him well, but he knows where I live, it’s not like I could steal it…It’s worth a shot.

      I leave my door ajar as I head downstairs.  I knock on Alan’s door and wait for a reply. 

Nothing.

I didn’t hear him leave, unless he went whilst I was in the shop, but surely I would have seen him?  I nearly give up and go back upstairs, but something stops me.  I hear a distant cry from outside, almost like a scream, and my need to see Tess safe and sound suddenly increases ten-fold.  I walk out the front door of the building and open the side gate that leads into Alan’s garden.  As a ground floor tenant he has the run of it.

      I walk down the side of Alan’s flat and come out onto the patio, the large sliding door is half open.  I tap the glass gently and step inside.

“Alan?  Are you in mate?”  I walk through his small kitchen and pause.  On the counter is a first aid kit, complete with scissors, bandages and antiseptic.  There’s bloody collection of dishcloths along side it.

      Alan must have hurt himself doing DIY this morning.  He might still be here, but there looks to have been a lot of blood, he’s probably already in A and E.

Unless he was hurt so badly he couldn’t get there.

The idea that Alan might be in the flat and laying unconscious somewhere makes me feel squeamish.  A large part of me wants to leave, but I suppose I have to check that he’s alright.

“Alan?”  I call out again.

I hear a groan from the lounge.  So he is still here.  I steel myself and open the door to the front room. 

What I see isn’t what I expected. 

Alan is facing away from me, out of the front window.  The sunlight gleams on the back of his bald head.  He is only wearing a vest and undershorts and I can see his scrawny white, hairless legs, crisscrossed with varicose veins, and I suddenly feel like an intruder.  Alan’s hands are on the window pane, his crooked fingers scratching up and down the glass.  His right hand has a bandage on it.

“Alan?  Are you alright?”

Alan stops moving.  He doesn’t talk, but he starts to turn slowly.  As he does I realise that something is wrong with him, for a second I think he’s had a stroke or-

Oh my Christ!

Alan’s lower face is covered, no,
caked
in dried blood.  It has run down his chin and onto his chest, matting the thick white hair that grows on it, so that he looks like he’s wearing a crimson bib.  His mouth hangs open, the teeth stained a horrible dark red. 

      All of this is awful, but his eyes are worse.  They seem clouded over, a lifeless grey, and yet I know he is seeing me clearly.

      I start to back away.  Something is very wrong with Alan, and whatever it is might be contagious.  I have no wish to catch whatever he has.

“I’m sorry mate I was just, it doesn’t matter, I’ll just…”

Alan makes a noise that sounds almost like a growl and starts moving towards me.  As he staggers forward, he stretches out his arms and gnashes his teeth together.  He keeps doing that, biting, snapping, the clicking sound they make is profoundly awful.  My bladder feels full and heavy and I am very scared now, of what has happened to Alan and what it might mean.  I retreat into the kitchen, but he follows me, more urgently, with that shuffling lurching gait. 

“Alan what the fuck?-”

He grabs me around my upper arms and pulls his face towards me, and for a bizarre second I think he’s going to try to kiss me, then his teeth snap shut again, inches from my nose.  His breath reeks, he smells rotten, hideous and I shove him backwards as hard as I can.  He staggers into the wall.

“Did you just try to fucking bite me?!”

He doesn’t answer, but starts coming towards me again.  I stand nearly a foot taller and a good few pounds heavier but he doesn’t seem to care.  I’m angry now, as well as scared, and if he tries to do that again I’ll have to hit him.

“Alan for fucks sake, what are you doing?  Stay the fuck back or I’ll knock you out I swear to God.”

He doesn’t seem to hear me, but keeps coming, making that horrible noise all the while.  I look for something I can throw at him, just to get him to stop or at least slow him down.  The closest thing is the kettle which I grab with my right hand.

“Right just back off or I’m gonna-”

He lunges at me and I swing, more in surprise than any kind of calculated blow, but it’s a heavy kettle, fully metal, and I catch him hard on the side of his head, knocking him over.

       I see a spurt of red from where I’ve clocked him and my stomach does a somersault.

“Oh fuck me, Alan I’m sorry I-”

Alan steadily lurches upright.  He does nothing to acknowledge his injury even though blood is now running freely down his face.  The blood is strange though, it seems too dark, too thick.  He starts that horrible moaning growl again and my fear turns to terror.  Alan is no longer my friendly, if somewhat annoying, downstairs neighbour.  He’s a monster, and he wants to kill me.

Fuck that, he wants to eat you!

That bloody voice again.  Alan surges forward, fingers grasping and I have time to notice that his fingertips seem have taken on a blue-ish tinge before they are hooking into my shirt, and his face is lunging for mine. 

      I somehow get my left arm up and between us but as I step backwards, I trip over the patio doorway and land on my back with Alan on top of me.  His face is millimetres away, the stench of him filling my nostrils making me want to gag.  I think I’ve started screaming and right now it’s all too easy to imagine those bloodstained teeth sawing through the flesh of my cheek.       

      I realise I still have the kettle in my right hand, and I drive it hard into his temple.  The first blow rocks him, splattering Alan’s blood onto my face.  I press my lips tightly shut- I don’t want to swallow that shit- and hit him again.  The second blow dislodges him and we roll over, me on top this time.  He is still grabbing at me, snapping at me, thrashing his bleeding head from side to side like a wild animal.  I pin him with my knees and use both hands to bring the kettle down onto his forehead.  As it hits home, I see a flap of his scalp peel back, exposing the gleaming bone beneath, and I feel my gorge rise, but I don’t stop.  I am half mad with terror and I just keep hitting him over and over. I bring the kettle down again and again, smashing his nose to a pulp, shattering his front teeth, until I hear a crack, almost like porcelain and Alan suddenly stops moving. 

      My arms are trembling and the base of the kettle is covered in gore and something that looks a little like porridge.  I have a second to realise that I’m looking at Alan’s brains- his fucking
brains
- and I fling the kettle away, wiping my hands frantically on my shirt.  I scrabble backwards, sliding across the patio on my backside until I’m against the garden fence.  Alan is not moving. 

Alan is a fucking mess.

Oh God.  I’ve just killed a man.

My cereal comes up in a rush, and I vomit onto the paving.  I suppose that I’m in some kind of shock but right now all I want is to get out of here.  I get to my feet and head for the side gate.

What about the keys to the van?
 

Shit shit shit!  That’s the whole reason I came down here in the first place to get those keys.  Can I take them?  Kill a man then steal his car?  That’s what this is now, a murder/robbery.  I am a murderer.

Or maybe not.

I mean, it was self-defence right?  He would have killed me if I hadn’t…

Hadn’t what?  Caved his head in?  He’s got thirty years on you.  Who do you think is going to believe that?

Oh fuck me.  I feel like I’m going to be sick again.  I run back upstairs and lock my door.  I sit with my back against it, my head in my hands.  I am trembling.  I know that there is no way on earth I get away with this.  I’ve seen enough CSI to know that any police force in the world could find enough evidence to nail me to the fucking wall.

I have to turn myself in.

I walk shakily to my phone and dial 999. 

The ‘engaged’ tone sounds in my ear.  I dial again.

Same thing.

What the hell is going on?  I go to the computer to Google my local police station but the internet’s still down.  I dig out the Yellow Pages instead and find the direct number.  I realise as I’m doing this that I’m crying.  I dial the number.  It rings for almost a full minute before someone picks up.  It’s a woman’s voice, clipped and a little fraught.  I can hear voices shouting and phones ringing in the background.

“Hello?”  She says.

“H-Hello, is this…the police?”  That sounds so weird out loud.

“Yes do you have an emergency?”

I swallow, and hesitate.

“Hello? Sir?”

“Yes- yes I’m still here.”

“Do you have an emergency?”

I take a deep shaky breath.  “I’ve just…I killed someone.”  There’s a few seconds of silence.  “I said-”

“I heard you sir, please explain to me what happened.”

“Well I went to speak to my neighbour, he lives downstairs and I- He- something was wrong with him, he attacked me and I hit him with-  I was defending myself, you know and-”  My throat closes and I feel a sob hitch in my chest.  “And I-”

“Sir?”  She interrupts.

“Y-yes?”

“Did he bite you?”

“I……What?”

“Did he
bite
you?”  She repeats louder.

“Er, no he didn’t, I mean, he tried to but I-”

“Did he scratch you, or break the skin in any way?”

“No I don’t think so…”

“Are you sure?”