Diaries of the Damned (2 page)

“Why?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “Why?” she asked again, and slowly, her eyes opened. At first they had this distant, unfocused stare of a person woken suddenly from a deep slumber, but that soon changed, and they stared straight at Paul. Although her words were questioning, the look in her green eyes was one of thanks.

“Don’t mention it.” Paul sat down; his hands had started to shake. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cigarette.

“How do you feel?” h
e asked, mildly embarrassed at the seeming stupidity of the question, but remembered Leon’s advice to keep her talking. Paul kept his voice to a whisper, mindful of the sleeping passengers around him.

For a long time the woman remained silent. She looked at Paul, closed her eyes and when she opened them again, her tears fell freely. “Dirty, I feel dirty,” she answered, her voice bre
aking. “What we did back there…I just…all those people…” she began to sob.

Paul hated it when women cried; he never knew what to do. He reached out and clumsily placed a hand on her shoulder. She couldn’t be more than twenty-four; he was almost old enough to be her father, but what they had all been through could not be explained or prepared for in any walk of life. “I know, but we did what we had to...” he lied. “We needed to get away. Besides, we are out now, and we’re safe.” He paused. Were they really safe? Did anybody know if the virus had spread from the island or not? It wasn’t as though they were in the middle of nowhere. They
were in England. The jump to France wasn’t a big one and with the tunnel, maybe it could have gotten through before they blew it up! Paul felt his mind begin to unravel, all of the questions nobody dared ask had started to bubble to the surface. He concentrated his mind, and forced them back down.

“We don’t know that
,” she said, seeming to read his mind. “What if it spread? What if someone got through the checks and infected one of the other planes?” she asked, her own mind whirling at a thousand miles an hour. The only difference being that she was in no condition to control it.

The plane bounced around slightly and Paul noticed, much to his own amusement, that the fasten seatbelt light came on.

“Best not to think like that.” He spoke calmly, “Do you want anything to drink? Something to eat maybe? You lost a lot of blood.” Paul wasn’t sure if he should be giving her anything, but it seemed like the right thing to offer.

“I co
uld go for a smoke.” She sighed.

“You and me both.
” Paul flashed a smile and felt his spirits rise as the woman returned his smile with genuine good humor. “I’m Paul, by the way.” He introduced himself, offering his hand before remembering her condition and withdrawing it sheepishly.

“Jessica,” she answered, “and thank you for saving my life.” Her eyes still welled with tears, but she managed not to let them fall.

“It was my pleasure. It feels good to save a life for once.” Paul spoke without thinking, and suddenly, the jovial mood that he had built was deflated.

The pair sat in silence for a few minutes, both mulling over the situation; both remembering those that had been lost. Twice Paul raised his gaze; only to lower it again as another horrific image invaded his mind: His sister stumbling down the street chasing him; her body blistered and covered with weeping sores. He remembered her calling his name and the pain in her voice when he turned his back on her.  Yet he couldn’t shed a tear. Every time he came close to that emotional release, his mind focused and he found himself pulled away by some menial task or chore that needed to be done. It didn’t matter how small the job; the distraction was all he needed, rather than any specific notion of accomplishment. Paul stared at his hands; the blood under his fingernails, the grazes and bruises that covered his forearms. Callouses had formed at the base of each finger from the near constant wielding of the machete
he had collected the first night. The night he had…Paul closed his eyes, and slammed the door on the memories. His hand clenched tightly, nails digging into the palms. Slowly he opened it again. It was a subconscious action that he repeated for as long as it took for memories to cease their pounding on that door.

“It’s alr
ight you know. To feel the pain,” Jessica whispered as she dragged herself into a semi-seated position.

“I…
I’m not ready,” Paul stammered after a moment’s pause.

“Neither was I, and take a look at what I did.” She held out her arms.

Paul had no reply. He simply curled his lips inwards and gave a slight nod of his head. The necessary words escaped him.

“You remind me of
my father,” Jessica said.

“How so?” Paul replied.

“He was a writer, too.” The accuracy of the woman’s guess had Paul floored. “You both have this, look: it starts in your eyes, and then consumes you. I‘ve seen that stare a thousand times over,” Jessica continued, having caught a glimpse of Paul’s face and the look of surprise etched upon it.

“That’s very astute of you,
” Paul confirmed.

“Yeah well, once you live with somebody like that, you begin to learn the signs. W
hat was your genre of poison?” she asked, her interest peaked. Whether it was because she too liked writing or simply because of the close relationship she had had with her father Paul didn’t know, but it offered him a chance of distraction, and so he ran with it.

“I was more of a journalist. I worked for one of the tabloid newspapers. I took the real news and dumbed it down.” He paused for a second; Jessica fit into their target demographic.

“Yeah, I never liked the tabloids much, nothing but gossip for the most part.” She grinned, “No offense.” She added, and this drew a small chuckle from Paul. “What’s wrong?” she asked him.

“Nothing I despised working there. It certainly wasn’t the big, main breakfast table newspaper I had always dreamed of, but it paid the bills. Fiction, now that is my true passion. I always wanted to write a book, one that would change the world. Now look,
the world has changed, and I’m…well, nothing,” he answered. Unable to take it anymore, he rose from the seat without saying a word, and grabbed his jacket. As he sat back down, Paul pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of the pocket, and after some digging, a lighter.

Jessica
watched him, “Can I have one?” she asked, “Don’t worry about the alarm,” she said as she took the cigarette she was offered and placed it between her lips. “The sensors just make a few lights blink up front. I don’t think the pilot will care very much.” Jessica dipped the smoke into the center of Paul’s offered flame and took a deep drag. Paul did the same, and the change in his mood was almost instantaneous.  “It’s not too late you know.” Jessica spoke between puffs. A few seats before them, one of the passengers gave a slight cough, in response to the smoke that filtered down the cabin.

“What do you mean?” Paul asked as he blew smoke through his nostrils, like a dragon

“Your book. It’s not too late to write it; to change the world,” she whispered, keeping her gaze low.

“I guess you’re right, but I don’t think a publishing house will be the first th
ing they set up when we get to…wherever the hell it is that we are headed.” He stared at Jessica, waiting to see if she got his message.

“I don’t know, they only tell the pilots. But I’m serious. I mean, why not tell our stories? We survived the fall of civilization.” Her voice grew in strength as she spoke. “Some with more grace than others, but still, we are the survivors. If you can tell our stories, then I am sure someone important will want to read them. Maybe we have missed something, overlooked it. Getting peoples stories on record might just answer a few questions.” She pushed. “Besides, self-publishing is the way to go, haven’t you heard?”

Paul considered it for a few moments, raising his head to check the cabin. “Could I?” He spoke aloud, but addressed himself. He always carried a pen and paper with him, and there weren’t too many people on board. Even if the flight was only a few hours long, he could get a few of them talking.

Why not? Maybe you’re the only writer who made it out alive.
Paul shivered at the thought, which made the hairs on the back their necks stand on end.

Rising from the chair once more, Paul carefully opened the baggage compartment above where he had been sitting, and pulled out a beaten up, old backpack. He brought it back to the back row of chairs, sat down, and pulled out a bloodied and crumbled pad of paper, and a cheap
pen which, after everything he had been through, still worked perfectly. With his bag on the floor, and his paper in hand, he turned to look at Jessica.

“So tell me, Jessica, what is your story...?”

Chapter 2 -
Jessica Bough

Jessica Bough stood in line at the supermarket. It was busy; filled with people panic buying ahead of the supposed snow storm that was heading their way. It was the same story every year. A horror winter that would mark the start of a new ice age, when in reality it would end up being an icy wind, a few flakes of snow, and then rain. Besides, it was almost February;
how long could it last?

Much to the an
noyance of the other shoppers, there were only three checkouts open despite the shop being packed. In their defense, the store had hung a sign apologizing for the delays, but there was a severe staff shortage. Everybody was at home with the flu that had been going around. Jessica was lucky in that she very rarely got sick; a good thing too because from what she had heard, this season’s flu strain was a bitch.

She stood there, slowly tapping her toes to the rhythm of an imaginary song. A rather large man standing a few places behind her in the line began to cough, once at first, then several times. The third fit made it sound as though his lungs were about to be ejected from his body. Jessica felt drops of his spittle land on her neck. She turned around to confront the man, but held her tongu
e when she caught a glimpse of his face. His skin was pasty and coated with a layer of sweat. His eyes were red and watery while his nose ran - the mucus had a slightly pink tint to it. Oh, how Jessica hated her apparent ability to notice the small things about a person! His lips were dry and cracked, and each breath sounded as though his lungs were filled with water.

“Sorry,” h
e offered before falling into another coughing fit. This time, when he pulled his hands away, his lips were speckled with blood.

“
It’s fine, sir,” Jessica answered. That week alone, on a flight back from Ireland – not the normal run she did, but short staffing levels had caused for some shift changes within the airline she worked for – she had been coughed over, spat and vomited on. The passenger in question had not been sick, but drunk. He had even made a grab for Jessica’s behind, but she had dodged it. Jessica had never hit anybody before, and had she not loved her job, she was certain her non-violent record would have been gone.

The queue moved forward slightly, and with the song in her head over; its composition complete and never to be used again, she began to look around the store, to pay attention to those
she shopped with. Everybody seemed sick - at least two thirds of them. The red eyes seemed to be the most common symptom, although the cough, which had begun to echo around the store, was also a somewhat less subtle indication. Jessica felt a chill run up her spine as it dawned on her that the store had been cough free when she had arrived.

Agitated, and eager to be out in the fresh air, Jessica began to bounce around, moving from one foot to the other. Behind her a commotion rang out. Whatever it was caused the store manager who, to his credit, stood behind the checkouts offering his apologies and some sort of voucher / coupon thing to everybody that went passed, to drop his tickets and run into the store. A few cries rang out, but a rising wave of coughing and wheezing drowned them out. 

An uneasy feeling settled over the store, and Jessica was glad when she could pay for her things. The man behind her had deteriorated in a matter of minutes and when she cast a glance over her shoulder at him - in genuine concern, she jumped at the sight. His face had turned a pale green color, the first time she had ever seen the expression in real life. His chest quivered as he took rapid, shallow breaths. His eyes had a glazed expression and he had a problem standing still and steady. He steadied himself on the counter and hung his head. The whole atmosphere made Jessica feel uneasy, so she ran from the store; throwing a ten pound note at the cashier, not waiting for her change.

It was a cool day outside, but certainly nowhere near horror winter standards. A few snowflakes fell, and an icy wind swirled around the car park.
Wow, that’s two thirds of the winter already done.
Jessica thought to herself as she placed her groceries in the well beneath the seat of her scooter.  She only lived a few miles away from the store; a ten minute bike trip even in bad conditions, but before she got home, the man who had been standing behind her was dead. So too were the couple that had collapsed in the rear of the store. The store manager and cashier were also infected, and would be dead by morning.

Once inside her small one bedroom apartment Jessica turned on the TV and made a bowl of instant noodles. It was late in the afternoon and she had a date that night, but Jessica was the sort of girl that liked to eat. She hated seeing people take a few bites of something and then leave the rest, claiming they were full. If a meal tas
ted good, she would eat it all…except in those restaurants that pile the plate so high it was impossible to clear the plate. Even then, she would take the leftovers home. However on dates, especially first ones, was a different story. She had learned that most men didn’t want to see her eat a whole plateful, so she ate at home to ensure she left at least half of her meal. Unless of course, the date went well and the man was one of the rare few that wanted a girl to enjoy her food. Then she would joke about her earlier meal, and then eat to her heart’s content. It didn’t happen very often, but when it did it was almost a guarantee for a second date; normally breakfast. As she ate, she flicked through the channels and found that every news show being broadcast talked about the flu; how it had reached pandemic proportions, and how a vaccine would be distributed in the coming days.
It’s the fucking bird flu, Mexican flu crap all over again
, Jessica sneered at the TV. There was no doubt that this strain was serious, and shots would be a good thing, but there was no doubt that the media would ham it up as much as they could. The thing that shook Jessica the most was that Norwich had been the first place in the UK to report a case.

The traffic was unusually light as Jessica made h
er way downtown, heading toward the Italian restaurant her date had picked out. She had never been there before and loved pizza, so she was in a happy mood as she weaved through the streets. It had already stopped snowing, and while the temperature had dropped, so too had the wind. The ride had been so simple that Jessica arrived fifteen minutes early. She headed to the bar a few doors further up to have a drink before her date arrived. It was of the blind sort, the friend of her best friend’s brother to be precise. Jessica always liked to bring herself to the first date; the second date too. She didn´t want everybody knowing where she lived and seeing how she dated somewhat frequently, her job being a small hindrance on any relationship building plans. It also stopped her from rushing in too fast and inviting men straight into her bedroom at the end of the night. That was not to say it never happened, but with less frequency that it had during her college years.

The bar was as good as empty, and the first thing Jessica heard when she walked in was the hacking cough of the bartender. He sounded as though he had the lungs of a terminally ill emphysema patient. An odor hung in the bar like a scented fog, a stench unlike anything Jessica had ever smelled. It was the smell of sickness mixed with stale sweat and beer. It was a pungent aroma that made her recoil, her skin tightening over her frame. The bartender looked up at her, a young man, who would have been attractive had it not been the thick trail of pink tinted mucus and blood that descended from both nostrils.

Jessica turned and left as quickly as she could, and headed to the restaurant. She would just sit at the table and order a drink there. She would explain everything and offer to pay for the drinks herself if need be.

The restaurant was very quiet, but it was early on a Wednesday so Jessica had not expected a big crowd. She was shown to her table and ordered a beer, another drink she could sneak in quickly before her date arrived and she had to switch to something more feminine. As it happened she had time to drink three, as her date was late; not that she ordered them. When he did arrive, he was full of apologies. He had been caught up at work, the flu had wiped out the personnel and he had ended up doing the work of an entire department. Jessica forgave him, mainly because of his intoxicatingly beautiful blue eyes. They were almost icy, their color was so clear.

The date went great. They laughed and joked. They shared stories and memories, even a few secrets; the kind that meant nothing, but created a feeling of trust nonetheless. Jessica ate the entire plate and drank beer the whole evening long. When the end came and the check had been paid, something that Jack insisted on paying in full, Jessica was adamant that they return to her house for coffee. She would return to pick up her bike in the morning. She´d had too many beers to drive anyway.

Jack was more than happy to escort her home, and had said that was his plan regardless, especially with the craziness of the previous few days.

They slept in each other’s arms and found feeling the warmth of another person’s flesh against their own to be both comforting and heartbreaking.

Jessica didn’t have a flight scheduled until later in the afternoon, so groaned expletively when her phone rang at eight the next morning.

Rolling over, she grabbed the phone and looked at the caller id. It was Rachel, her best friend. She was an artist and never awake before noon. “Hey Rach…”  Jessica began, her mind already gathering speed for the reason behind the early call. Rachel still lived in the same town they grew up in, and the first thought to flash in her mind was that there had been an accident; that her parents, or even worse, her younger brother, Eric had been hurt.

“Jess, where are you?” The panicked voice of her best friend cut her off mid-sentence.

“I’m home. I don’t fly anywhere until this afternoon. What’s wrong Rachel? You sound upset.” Jessica wasn’t used to hearing her normally laidback friend so worked up about anything other than her current project.

“Lock the doors, Jess. Lock everything in your house now, and turn on your goddamned TV!” Jessica sat on the bed, her overnight guest forgotten, and turned on the television. “Are you seeing this Jessi
ca? Those things are everywhere,” Rachel cried, “What are we going to do?”

“Rachel, Rachel, slow down a second. I don’t get it, what things; what’s going on? My TV won’t pick up a signal.” Jessica tried to calm her friend.

“They have said that it is all because of this flu that’s going around. Everybody is dying Jess. Everybody!” Rachel cried, “Mike didn’t come home last night, either. We had a fight; he stormed off and never came home. He always comes home… they got him, I know they did. Oh God I got him killed!” Her friend entered a new level of hysteria as she referred to her long term, on-again-off-again boyfriend Mike. The pair was like Tom and Jerry. Their fights were known to be legendary and their make-up sessions even more so.

“Rachel, wait a second, slow down. Breathe
, Rach, breathe. What happened to Mike? Who killed him, and what does any of this have to do with the flu?” Jessica was used to her friend’s breakdowns; the perils of an artistic mind, but early in the morning was not the time for it.

“The zombies Jess, I’m talking about the motherfucking zombies!” Rachel screamed. “Everybody that has died from the fuckin
g flu has come back as a zombie!”

Jess didn’t really hear her friend’s words; her attention was diverted by the sound of screams that came from across the street. Jessica lived in a cozy terraced house in a small suburb on the outskirts of Norwich. It was a nice enough area, so the screams were certainly out of place; unlike the area she lived in while at college. Rising from the bed she looked outside. Her neighbor, a woman she had never met but knew to be Barbara Johnson, staggered out of her house screaming. Her hands were clasped to her neck which hemorrhaged blood at an alarming rate. She didn’t even make it down the steps that led to the raised front door of the house before she fell to the ground; dead.

“Oh my God!” Jess cried as she saw Barbara’s son (she thought he was about eleven) appear in the doorway, his face covered with blood. Even from across the street she could see that he was chewing.

“Jess, Jess what is it?” She heard Rachel calling her name.

“It’s…my…my neighbor. She’s dead, her son…he…bit her,” Jessica stammered, her mind busy trying to process what she had seen. “Rachel, what’s going on?”

“That’s what I have been trying to tell you
, Jess! It’s zombies. The flu has created zombies. The news is telling everybody to stay indoors, to close all windows and doors, and to wear masks. It’s fucking crazy. Half of the town is dead…” Rachel’s voice trailed off, and the resultant thump told Jessica that she had dropped the phone.

“R
achel? Rachel? Are you there?” she called. She could hear something on the other end of the phone.

“Mike, Mike thank God you’re safe. I love you
baby…Mike, stop, no...No oh God no,” Jessica heard her friend start to scream. “Get off me! No, Mike, please, stop.” The words were mixed with a series of deep growls and grunts.

“Rachel!” Jessica screamed. The sounds of a scuffle filtered down the phone. The noise that ended it all was one that Jessica would never forget. The sound of her best friend having her skin ripped open created a lasting impression in her mind. It was a cry filled with such agony that it transcended all means of description. What made it worse were the satisfied smacks of a greedy mouth as it was stuffed with fresh meat.