Jackson – Thursday: Plague Day
Jackson strode out over the bridge. He made sure the trucks were long gone of course. There was no point in tempting fate. The silence was lessened here by the swell of the Thames beneath his feet.
His mind reeled, from questions about himself to questions about what was happening. But the one he kept coming back to was why he was alive and no one else was. Why had he been chosen? Was this some kind of punishment for all those years of treating God like dirt? Was it payback after the years of crime? It was no less than he deserved, but perhaps there was more here than this. Perhaps he was being given a chance. A second chance to do something real with his life. To make a change.
He stared down into the water and his fists clenched as he nodded. He would make a change. He already had. Whatever was happening in London, he had been kept alive to fix it, to make it better and he would. If it was the only thing he ever did. It would be the one thing he did that was good and pure and not motivated by the dark needs that he could still feel inside, trying to claw their way up.
The children were keeping them down. Stamping and kicking at them, screaming all the while.
He turned back and headed to what he was already referring to as ground zero. The police had been heading for the Houses of Parliament, so that’s where he’d start. He stomped hard, revelling in the thud of the pavement beneath his feet. Every step took him further from the countless hours spent in the park.
He realised that he had no idea how long he’d been there. He had no way of knowing how long the children had been climbing inside him and tearing him apart. Tears sprung up in his eyes and he stumbled to a halt and fell to his knees. He had deserved nothing less but still it hurt. His punishment had been brutal, beyond brutal. Had he really deserved all that?
He climbed to his feet and resumed his walking, bringing every step down with a thump. His knees began to hurt but he couldn’t stop himself. An image flashed before his eyes, of a child’s face beneath his boot as he brought it down. He shouted and swung his arms as if to bat the image away but it was stuck firm in his mind.
He growled and kept walking. This was a test. It was all a test. What was happening here was a test to see if he was worthy, if he should be allowed into heaven. Just like mam had said, he had to work at it. Every day he had to work at it and eventually he’d be let in. This just made it easier, because he knew what he had to work at.
The streets were covered in bodies. They were stiff and twisted into strange positions. If he blurred his eyes he could imagine he was looking at mannequins, molten in the sun. A fog lay over the ground, thick enough that some of the corpses were obscured from view. A weak wind tried and failed to move it and he felt like he was floating through the city.
Buildings sprung from the fog, untethered and ready to float away at any moment. He sniffed. Enough of the romantic bullshit. He had to keep his eye on the prize, whatever it was. He didn’t really know what it was. He couldn’t save these people, they were already dead.
He stopped, squinting through the afternoon sunshine. A hand thrust up through the fog, like a flag on a ship far out to sea. Against the dirty brown of the mist it stood out stark, white and stiff. The closer he got, the more convinced he became that it was just an unfortunate pose, that the owner was just as dead as the others.
His feet scraped on the concrete and he hesitated. Ten feet and then five. He was about to turn away when the hand slowly opened and closed, the fingers twitching. He swallowed and took a step backward and a hand closed around his ankle.
He tumbled onto his arse, swearing as he went down. He landed on something soft and jumped up quicker than he’d gone down. The hand scraped against him again and he looked down, but the fog hid everything. He lashed out and hit something. He lashed out again, shouting this time, but missed and nearly went arse over tit.
Jackson ran. He didn’t think about where he was going. His feet caught against bodies and he went over, tearing his trousers and the knees beneath them. His hands were bleeding as well by the time he reached the bridge, but he couldn’t stop. It was quieter here and the fog hadn’t settled. It was appearing in wisps before being dragged off by the wind and drifting down the river.
He arrived on an island. On both sides of the river the dirty fog lay thick and heavy. There were no bodies in his small space, nothing but him and the railings and the water far below. The buildings hovered, floating on a sea that shifted and spun. He could stay here. He could stay here and be safe. Nothing could get to him, not if he stayed alert and focused.
He put his back to the railing and waited. It didn’t take long.
The first thing he heard was the scraping, as though someone with a gammy leg was making their slow way across the bridge. When he spotted them, his teeth went straight through the lip he’d been worrying. He didn’t know whether it was the blood or just his scent, but as it trickled out his mouth and down his chin, the person he’d spotted – and he still used the word person then – jerked to a stop and stared at him.
He’d learn soon enough that the blood hadn’t helped. He’d learn all about the blood, but at that moment, all he knew were the eyes. They were dead, sunken and dry, yet still seemed to glare at him with a malevolence he’d have recognised had he been one of the children he’d taken in the last five years. The man’s hair was coming out, tufts and patches covering a blotchy scalp.
The person lurched back into motion. It didn’t move fast but it didn’t hesitate either and came with a purpose that suggested inexorability. As it reached the top of the bridge, he realised that it did indeed have a gammy leg. One foot was dragged along, twisted to one side. Jackson took a deep breath and then burst out coughing.
The thing smelled. There was rot, like meat left in the fridge too long and something else. A sort of wet mustiness like a wooden shed that’s got damp and started growing mould. It crept into his nostrils and throat and clogged him up and he furiously rubbed his nose in an attempt to dislodge it. It made no difference and he tried to take shallow breaths as it came nearer.
He’d say, when asked later, that at this point he weighed up the options. He thought about running and decided against it. But the truth was, his legs refused to move and it was all he could do not to fall to the floor and pray for something. The person didn’t stop. It raised its arms and that was the moment he was galvanised into action.
He shouted, barely recognising the high-pitched squeak that emerged, and grabbed the arms. They felt hot, not at all like the bodies he’d examined a few minutes earlier. And the moment he closed his hands around them, they jerked and yanked and almost pulled him off his feet. The creature was strong and unyielding and Jackson didn’t stop to think.
He pulled it toward him and past him and to the edge of the railing. Its chest struck the bar and a sound like wood striking metal echoed over the river. Then Jackson grabbed it by the legs and heaved. It went straight over the barrier and dropped like a stone in to the Thames.
It sunk in just the same way, but he kept watching, waiting for it to bob to the surface. It was the watching that nearly killed him. He smelled them first and spun around. Two of them stood no more than fifteen feet away and if he hadn’t been in full panic mode, he’d have said they were smiling.
He couldn’t throw them both over. He reached for the small of his back and pulled out his knife. It was a bowie knife, the kind he’d always wanted as a kid. With his first pay check from the Chinese men he’d gone and bought one and hadn’t left it at home since. Just thinking of the two men brought sweat to his brow, but he was glad for the knife.
The people came at him and his breathing sped up. They both stretched their hands out, like the old versions of Frankenstein and he hacked at them. The one to the right lost some fingers and he hacked a large chunk out of the other’s palm. Their blood was thin, like watered-down gravy with bits in and it went everywhere.
It struck his top and he jumped back, shrieking again. He half-expected it to start hissing and melting through the material, but it just clung there, carrying the same smell of mould. His attackers seemed oblivious to their new wounds, they just kept on coming. He gritted his teeth together and stepped forward.
With a shout he imagined was a battle cry, he buried the knife hilt deep in the one on the right’s eye. It made a squelching sound as it struck and he heaved. The other one grabbed his shoulder and he lashed out, fists swinging wildly. He caught it on the chin and it staggered back. He followed it with another blow to the face and it fell over.
He turned back to the one with the knife in its eye. It lay prone on the floor and the smell of rot grew suddenly stronger. His eyes widened as the skin began to slough away, layers of it crumbling to the floor. With nose wrinkled, he stepped closer and pulled his knife free. It was accompanied by another squelching sound that he did his best to ignore.
The second was getting up, no worse the wear for his punches and he readied the knife. He knew what he was fighting. He’d spent the last ten minutes pretending they were something else, or at least hoping they were, but his subconscious knew all too well. There were so many things wrong with it he wanted to scream. But at least he knew how to kill them.
The zombie came at him and he punched it in the face then jammed the knife into its ear. It went in easier than he expected and he lost his footing, falling over on top of the creature. As it struck the ground, the body beneath him gave way and his elbows sunk deep into its chest. The warmth of the lumpy blood soaked into his shirt and he groaned as bile filled the back of his throat.
He rolled off, flicking ineffectually at his shirt. He smelled of it and imagined he could taste the rot in his mouth. He yanked his shirt off, keeping it from touching his face. The body at his feet was going the same way as the first, skin rotting before his eyes. He pulled his knife clear of the mess and stood.
Jackson looked across the city. How many of them were there? Hundreds, thousands? More, so many more. But he was God’s soldier and he would fight them one by one. It was what he was supposed to do. He raised both hands above his head and roared and if it came out slightly squeaky, he didn’t care.
Next Installment Monday 15th September
