Maz Marik

The pursuit was relentless. James’s feet thundered across the soft earth, sweat forming on his forehead. He leapt over the root of an ancient oak and stumbled as he landed, checking behind him urgently. No sign. He collapsed to his knees for a moment, catching his breath before jumping up in alarm.

A sound in the undergrowth. It wasn’t like a horror film, where the silence is punctured by the sharp snap of a twig. Instead, he sensed a more subtle change in the normal forest sounds, and he knew that his pursuer was close.

He ran.

He ran until his lungs burned, and his heart drummed the ferocious beat of the music he’d danced to like a fugitive until 4am at a sweaty house party the night before. He was painfully aware of what would happen if he stopped.

His muscles were straining, the soreness originating in his calves, and then working its way up his hamstrings until his legs were replaced by a blur of pain.

Still he kept running.

The blur was replaced by a sudden sharp cramp and his strides became uneven. He tried to stop but his momentum carried him skidding and then flying into a bush. Instead of trying to extricate himself from the leaves and branches he burrowed deeper inside, aware that further escape was likely to be impossible for a few minutes, at least.

Come and get me, he thought. Losing his footing had availed him of a decent hiding place: sheltered, dark and out of the way. He lay down under the branches and swallowed the air like a ravenous beast. Each breath was loud and deep and he closed his eyes, enjoying the momentary relief.

He was therefore very surprised when he heard the angry roar and a pair of strong hands grabbed his shoulders.

*****

Mr. Shah sighed deeply as the bus pulled up alongside the shopping centre. It had been a busy day. He was not really designed to look after himself, he decided. That’s why God gave him a wife. Although he must have angered God somehow, as she had spent the last three weeks in India visiting her parents, and Mr. Shah was all alone.

He climbed off the bus and through the giant double doors, past the posters advertising the Good Friday sales. I remember when shops stayed shut on Good Friday.  And what’s so good about it anyway? he thought.

The centre was crowded, filled with shoppers hunting out bargains. He avoided the fashionable marquee shops on the ground floor, and headed instead for the escalators up to the giant discount stores, tucked away in dingy corners like embarrassing relatives.

As he glided upwards, sandwiched uncomfortably between a bawling infant and a teenager describing the previous night’s adventures in lurid detail, he stared up to heaven. Obscuring his communion was the centre’s glass roof.

That’s funny, Mr. Shah thought. The sky was clear a minute ago. Where did those clouds come from?

*****

James was hauled roughly to his feet and he had to struggle to resist screaming. The face of the huge figure was red and angry.

“Get off,” James said. “It hurts. I think I pulled a muscle.” The face was silent, but the strong hands did not release their grip. “Dad, let go of me.”

At last the hands relaxed, and James was able to move.

“What the fuck did you think you were playing at?” the figure asked.

“I have no idea what you mean,” James replied.

“I’ll ask again. What did you think you were playing at?”

James sighed. “It was a joke.”

“Smashing up the headteacher’s car was a joke?”

“Yeah.”

“And who exactly is laughing?” There was a silence and then James’s father grabbed his arm. “Come on, we’re going to go and straighten this out.”

They walked in silence out from the undergrowth, across the muddy ground until the trees started to thin.

James frowned. “How did you find me, anyway?  I was miles ahead of you.”

“I used a GPS tracker and some infrared goggles from the shop. I could see every bead of sweat on your head when you were hiding in the bush.”

“Really?”

“No, not really. I didn’t need to. You always end up in the forest, and with those massive things on your feet? I just followed your trail. It was like tracking a fucking hiphop elephant. I barely had to break a sweat.” James glanced down at his huge white trainers, the soles caked in mud. Fair point, he thought.

They emerged from the shade of budding branches and headed for the car. “What happened to the sun?” James asked. The sky was filled with strange, swirling, dancing clouds, a mixture of grey and white, tinged with red.

“Looks like a storm coming,” said his father, as they climbed into the car.

*****

There was a long queue in front of Mr. Shah in the pound shop. There always seemed to be a queue in front of Mr. Shah in the pound shop. God must be really angry with me today, he thought. He daydreamed wistfully about life back in India, where queues were generally a matter of who could shout the loudest and push the hardest.

He closed his eyes and was so deeply immersed in his reminiscences of Mumbai that he didn’t notice the sound that was rising in volume all around him, or the one that had disappeared completely.

The absent sound penetrated his attention first. The incessant beeping of the tills had stopped, and was replaced by a rising hubbub; confused voices, screaming children. Mr. Shah opened his eyes and was confronted with the curious gloom only experienced in places that are designed never to be seen in the dark.

The lights were out. The tills were off. A power cut? People were waving phones in the air and, though Mr. Shah did not have a mobile phone, he assumed this meant that signal had been lost.

He was used to power cuts. In Mumbai, in his grandfather’s house, life had been one long power cut. And now here he was in a British pound shop, and people were panicking. Panicking!

The noise of the crowd grew louder as they realised the automatic doors were shut and would not open. Already, an enterprising group of youths had pulled some tools off the shelves and were trying to use them to force the doors open. Shortly afterwards, bent and twisted in their hands, they realised why the tools only sold for a pound.

“For God’s sake, stop panicking, will you? It’s just a power cut, we’ll be out of here soon, don’t worry,” an elderly man shouted. Mr. Shah laughed as he heard him mutter under his breath, “Fat lot of good you rabble would’ve been in the war.”

Mr. Shah surveyed the crowd. The immediate hysteria seemed to be calming down, and many of the crowd were laughing and joking. At the front of the shop, a small boy stared up and out of the windows. Mr. Shah followed his gaze.

On the top floor they were close to the glass roof. The swirling, twisting, scudding red-grey clouds filled Mr. Shah’s sight and he watched them, mesmerised. I’ve seen every kind of British weather and lived through monsoons. I’ve been caught up in a sandstorm and a hurricane in my time but I’ve never seen the sky look like that.

There was a muted boom, and then a rumble, and the plate glass windows vibrated. The tremor lasted for a few seconds, the floor shaking gently beneath Mr. Shah’s feet.

Silence. The confused voices had died away, the babies were quietened. Looking around, a few people appeared to have collapsed, or were sitting in a daze, eyes barely focusing.

Someone picked up a fire extinguisher and smashed a window, and the chaos resumed.

*****

James’s eyes were fixed on the sky. It was unlike anything he could ever remember seeing in his fifteen years of life.

The car had stopped, stuck in an unusually large traffic jam for the time of day. Horns beeped, and desperate drivers edged bumper to bumper in both directions, as though gaining an extra inch would save them any time at all.

“What’s the hold up?” James asked. He was relieved. The longer they had to wait, the more time the headteacher would have to calm down, get a sense of humour, or possibly buy a bike.

“Dunno,” his father said. “But don’t for a minute think you’re going to be in any less trouble when we get back.”

James rolled his eyes. “Yes, Dad.”

“Why did you do it, anyway? Even for you it was a stupid thing to do.”

He shrugged. “It was there. My mates were there. It was a golden opportunity. Sometimes, Dad, you just have to act on instinct.”

“Like an animal?”

“No, like an artist.” James chose his words carefully, and waited for the inevitable reaction.

“An artist?”

And there it is, James thought, smiling as he relaxed in his seat. “Yep,” he said.

There was a silence while his father seethed. If anything, the clouds matched his mood as he switched on the radio and flicked through the presets. There was nothing but white noise. “I’ll tell you something,” he said. “You should count your blessings that I’m not acting on instinct right now.” Manual tuning caused the speakers to hiss and squeak but there was no hint of any voices or music. “What’s up with this thing?”

People up ahead had started climbing out of their cars, some swearing and cursing loudly and others staring at the sky as though hypnotised. James did the same, resisting his father’s attempts to keep him in his seat.

As soon as he was outside he sensed a nervousness. A tenseness about the crowd that suggested that all was not right with the world. He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.

“Come on son, help me push the car onto the verge. We’ll be better off walking back at this rate.”

James opened his mouth to reply but his was drowned by a booming sound, and the ground beneath their feet shook for a moment.

“What the…?” James began. “Earthquake? Here?”

“I don’t think so somehow,” his father replied. “Look.” James turned to where he was pointing and saw the huge rising cloud of smoke, dust and debris many miles to the north.

London.

*****

Mr. Shah was not very fit, but he found himself running out through a hole in a window along with a crowd of people, out into the concourse where the cut-price crowd from the pound shop mingled with the larger mass of shoppers in the centre.

The escalators had stopped. The lifts had frozen. Some civic-minded people were carrying elderly people and helping women with pushchairs down to the ground floor. Other, less conscientious people, were busy smashing shop windows and taking what they could grab.

Although he felt dazed, Mr. Shah tried to help some of the many people who had inexplicably collapsed around him. He knelt down next to a young man who did not look very well at all.

“Are you OK, sir?” Mr. Shah asked, realising from the briefest of glances at the man’s pallid face, staring eyes and tightly clenched teeth that he did not need a reply to know the answer. As expected, the man was silent, other than an occasional groan.

Mr. Shah walked to another prone figure, and saw exactly the same features, the same tensing of muscles, the same pale grey skin. What am I supposed to do?

“Let’s get these lot down where the ambulance can get them,” a voice said from behind him. Mr. Shah glanced over his shoulder and saw a tall man. He nodded, and the two of them started moving bodies carefully down the escalator.

The ground floor was mayhem. The crowds were building up as the shops emptied, people were collapsed all over the place, and all the automatic doors were shut. The fire exits were blocked by the throng of people pouring out, but many more were staying where they were, kneeling in distress next to collapsed friends and relatives.

A harassed-looking security guard stood in the middle of the chaos, attempting to give some direction, but failing miserably.

Mr. Shah was halfway down the escalator moving his fourth ‘patient’ when he heard a strange guttural sound from the top floor. Then, there was another one from the ground floor where he was heading. Has someone brought a dog in? he thought. That’s a pretty stupid thing to do.

There was a loud screech somewhere in the distance, like an animal being slaughtered but deeper and more menacing. Angrier.

Somebody screamed.

*****

The first thing James noticed after the tremor was a man in a Manchester United football shirt collapsing face first onto the road, between the lanes of static traffic. Then came a long blast on a car horn that did not end. When he looked for its source, James saw a woman in a car whose head had lolled against her steering wheel.

His father rushed to the man’s aid, but even as he covered the short distance more and more people collapsed around him.

“What do we do?” asked James.

“There’s too many,” his father said. “I’ll call an ambulance. Or twenty.” He glanced at his phone. “No signal. You?”

James checked his own handset. “Nothing here either.”

His father climbed onto the bonnet of his car and shouted, “Has anyone phoned an ambulance?” The reply was muted, and clearly negative.

“Shall I run over to the hospital myself?” James asked. “It’s not too far.”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight while this is going on. You’ve caused me enough problems today. I’m not going to have you falling ill too.”

James scowled. “Bit late for that. My calves still ache and now my head’s killing me.” Together, they pushed the car some of the way off the road, grabbed a bottle of water each from the boot (“Always be prepared,” his father said) and set off towards town.

They had been walking for less than ten minutes when James said, “It’s not any different wherever we go. Cars jamming the roads, people collapsing everywhere. What’s going on?”

“I have no idea,” his father said. “Some kind of poisonous explosion? A dirty bomb or something? But then why are we OK?”

James shrugged as they reached the outskirts of Crawley, and headed towards the hospital. Even though the streets were residential, an eerie silence surrounded the people lying unmoving on the pavement.

Far off in the distance there was a strange, high-pitched scream, like a giant mosquito. James looked around for the source, and froze.

One of the collapsed bodies was moving.

James shouted in alarm, “Dad!” but even as his father turned to him, James found himself falling to the floor, his head spinning.

*****

The scream set off a fresh wave of bedlam in the shopping centre. Something was happening around the corner from the escalators. Many people were rushing to the crush by the fire exits, while anxious friends and relatives formed protective rings around the fallen.

“Excuse me please, but I am the Red Cross around here, sir, do you mind?” Mr. Shah said as he was buffeted and battered amongst the crowd. He lowered the patient to the ground and weighed up his options.

The ways out of the centre were either stuck or too crowded to be practical. He was strong, but tired, and the thought of standing around being knocked all over the place did not appeal. I’ve done my good deed for today, he thought. Those people were heavy. And smelly.

The screeching grew louder.

Whatever that is, something strange is going on. Time to get out of the way.

Having arrived in England in the 1970s, Mr. Shah was more than used to having to stay hidden even in plain sight. It was practically a survival mechanism for the poor areas in which he tried to raise his family, where skinheads and neo-Nazis walked the streets and, worse, he had to endure the neighbours with their “I’m not a racist, but…” and their “Some of them are OK.”

He crept away from the mass of people and searched out a hiding place. There was a screech and a roar from the crowd but he did not look back.

Somewhere secluded where I can hide till the power comes on.

At last he found a passport photo booth in a corner. He pulled aside the curtain and sat down, then drew his knees up to his chest so no one would know he was there. Perfect.

Mr. Shah closed his eyes and thought of his wife and children. He recited invocations and prayers under his breath, wincing occasionally as the sounds of the bustling throng on the other side of the curtain were drowned out by the bizarre screeching noise interspersed with fearsome growls and, worst of all, a crescendo of endless, agonised screaming.

*****

James landed heavily on the ground. His head throbbed and his eyes hurt, but when he tried to close them they stung even more. Lying curled up on his side he watched his father’s heavy boots approaching, and then khaki knees as he knelt alongside.

“James?” a voice said, although it sounded like it was speaking underwater. “What’s wrong? Not you too. Jesus Christ, speak to me, James!”

James tried to open his mouth to reply, but his jaws were clenched shut. The only sound he could make was a rattling from deep within his throat.

His father was taking his pulse, and then removing his coat and laying it over him. I’m not cold, James tried to say. I’m burning up. The words emerged as a vague groan. He closed his eyes again, and when he opened them the pain reduced slightly, although the scene became a little blurry. He could see his father’s boots and then, seemingly out of nowhere, and as if in slow motion, a hand grabbed one ankle.

James tried to shout out, but the groan was constant. His father evidently did not need the warning. He pulled the boot away and then James saw it stamping down several times. Over and over again. As if from a million miles away, his father’s voice said, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Get off me, you fucking freak!”

He closed his eyes again, and the pain eased a little. His father’s hands grabbed him around the waist, and then the same strong arms that had dragged him out from his hiding place in the bush lifted him up and onto those broad shoulders. “Let’s get you to the hospital too, son,” the distant voice said. James tried to nod but his neck felt stiff.

They walked on through the strange new world, and James lost consciousness.

*****

After a while, Mr. Shah opened his eyes and drifted back from his comforting daydream of life in India, of the sights and sounds and smells, the colours and the voices and the spices, his mother’s arm resting on his shoulder and his father’s voice booming in his ears, and returned to a more precarious position, perched on a chair in a photo booth in a shopping centre in Crawley.

It might have been hours. It might have been seconds.

He had found himself tuning out from reality as the sounds from beyond the curtain grew more and more distressing. The screams were relentless, but from time to time he would hear sobbing and desperate voices pleading, begging for mercy. At one point a child’s light footsteps pattered past the booth, and his parental instincts briefly overpowered his urgent desire to remain hidden. He peeked through the curtain but could see nothing. A moment later a heavier shape followed and the tiny, pitiful scream afterwards nearly forced him out of hiding.

Now, though, all was silent.

Sitting perfectly still, he tried to estimate how many people had been gathered on the ground floor. Hundreds. A thousand?

Cautiously, he slid the curtain across and stepped out of the booth, and almost immediately slipped over. A puddle of blood spread across the floor. In the corner was the dismembered, decapitated body of a young child, maybe seven or eight years old. Mr. Shah gagged, and got to his feet.

Out in the concourse, the scene was even more horrific. Corpses carpeted the cold tiled floor, and in places they were piled up two or three deep. He scanned the scene for any sign of movement, any suggestion of survivors. Nothing.

As a child, Mr. Shah’s father had told him terrifying tales of the taqseem, the Partition of India, when neighbour turned on neighbour, bodies piled up and the dusty streets flowed with blood. As an adult, Mr. Shah had set off with a humanitarian relief mission to Bosnia and had seen something similar.

This was worse. Far worse. Is there a war on? Have we been invaded?

Slowly, he picked his way across the grim scene to the nearest emergency exit. Hating himself, he climbed up the pile of bodies that blocked the way. Although he was not a tall man, Mr. Shah had to clamber on all fours just to squeeze through the gap at the top of the door.

*****

James flashed back to consciousness, his eyes flicking open. In his stinging sight the world was a blurry mass, which occasionally cleared, discoloured as though viewed through a faded, washed out red filter. His hearing was drowned out by a constant hiss, like a detuned radio.

The scene bounced up and down as his father stepped briskly along streets that were familiar, but then suddenly strange, and then familiar again. His thoughts struggled to stand alone just as his body had.

What’s happening to me?

His muscles were still tensed, his limbs stiff and unyielding. His extremities felt a long way away, disconnected, and the only part of him that he felt any control over were his painful eyes.

Another familiar street, which became unrecognisable a moment later, and they neared the town centre. There were more bodies lying around.

They rounded a corner and a gathering of figures, tinted red, filled his sight before blurring once again. A faint screech emerged through the constant hiss, and then grew louder, slicing through his hearing and his thoughts and the fog in his head like a broadsword.

What’s happening to me?

What’s happening?

What?

The world turned red. To his surprise, James arched his back and growled, then jumped away from his father’s grip.

*****

Mr. Shah was disconsolate as he walked along the silent road. There were corpses scattered around, bloody and mutilated, but no people in the same strange paralysed state as those he had helped down the escalator. After he had been sick for what seemed like the hundredth time, all he wanted to do was curl up somewhere and cry. Instead, his pragmatic mind forced his body upright, scanning all around for any possible danger.

He had no destination in mind, so he walked vaguely in the direction of home through the town centre, staying close to the walls of the buildings. Every so often a screech or a roar rang through the air and his whole body would tense up, a prayer jumping to his lips.

The roads were filled with cars, mostly abandoned, lights on, doors wide open. Worse were those with their unfortunate owners still inside, blood splattered across the windows and the dashboards. He thought about driving home in one, but the roads were so packed he knew he would not get very far. When he tried a few engines, they quickly spluttered and died.

He walked on, under the strange clouds. The red-grey shapes were rippled with lines of black, as though they had been detailed by a very meticulous fire.

Where are all the people? I can’t be the only one, surely? Where are the police? The army?

Rounding a corner into a side road, he suddenly heard footsteps moving towards him at speed, so he ducked into a doorway, out of sight. He had barely taken a single deep breath before an arm wrapped itself around his neck and he smelt foul, filthy, foetid breath.

He moved back out into the street, dragging his aggressor with him, but within a few steps his strength was almost gone, and he felt the strangler’s teeth piercing the skin on his shoulder.

*****

James stood, bemused. The world flashed in and out of focus, but the clear, red-tinted image dominated. The gathering of figures had noticed them, and was moving towards him and his father.

Dad.

His father walked towards him and rested his hands on James’s shoulders. “Come on, son. We have to get out of here. I don’t know what’s going on, but that crowd don’t look friendly.” Even though he stood a few feet away, he sounded like someone shouting from a distance. The words were clear enough, but the all-pervading hiss overpowered them, and James realised he had no idea what any of them meant, except for…

Dad.

“I said, come on, James! We have to go!”

Dad.

“James!”

The world turned red.

Dead.

James leapt at his father, knocking him to the ground and fixing his hands around his throat. Baring his teeth, James moved his head closer, and his mouth watered as he prepared to take a bite. Closer, until his teeth were inches from the strangled throat.

He stared into his father’s eyes.

Dead.

Just for a moment, the redness disappeared and James recoiled, as the desperate babbling, choking voice below him made sense.

“Son, it’s me. Son, what are you doing? James. James!”

Dad.

The redness faded again for a moment. The blurry figures were close at hand. James leant down and with every ounce of strength and willpower left in his body formed his mouth into a single whispered word.

“Run!”

He released the grip on his father’s throat and allowed himself to be pushed off. His father lingered for the briefest of moments, then ran down an alleyway. James disappeared among the gathering, and the redness overwhelmed him.

*****

The teeth had barely broken the skin when whoever was holding Mr. Shah let out a howl and released his grip. Collapsing to the ground and rolling over, he saw a plump man being beaten round the head by a young lady with a cricket bat.

Eventually the figure on the ground stopped struggling.

“Are you OK?” the girl asked.

Mr. Shah coughed and spluttered. “I’m fine. I will live. Thank you, miss..?”

“Alice,” she said.

“I’m Mr. Shah. Pleased to meet you. Did you just kill that man?”

“I don’t know what it is, but I don’t think it’s a man anymore. He would have killed you though, no doubt about it. Whatever they are, they’re everywhere.”

“Is he… ill?”

“I have no idea. No one knows anything really. But we’re all in danger here. We have to move.”

“All? There’s more of you?”

“There’s a group of us, not many. Just random people who are still normal. They’re gathered in an old abandoned warehouse round the corner there.”

“Why are you out here then?”

“I’m not hurt and I’m a fast runner so I’ve been sent out to round people up. We’re heading out into the countryside in a couple of hours. There’s too many of them in town. We can’t be safe.”

Alice walked off and a breathless Mr. Shah had to jog to keep up. He weighed up his options. He had no family nearby, and his wife was on the other side of the world. “Can I come with you? I’d like to help.”

“Sure. What can you do?”

Mr. Shah frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve done relief work before.” He paused, struggling to think of any other useful talents. Weakly, he added, “…and I own a restaurant.”

“Superb. Kyle was saying we could use someone who knows how to feed large numbers…”

“Er… well, I did say I own a restaurant…” Mr. Shah interrupted.

“…but I don’t really think we’re going to end up with large numbers. Everywhere I look, people are dead.”

There was a brief silence as that thought sank in.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Miss, where are we going?”

“Some of the group say there’s an army surplus store around here somewhere. If there’s one place to loot before a trip to the countryside, that’s probably it.”

Mr. Shah nodded. “I know it. Let’s go.” He led the way down a side street.

“So, how did you survive?” Alice asked.

He bowed his head. “I’m ashamed to say, I hid while the killing was going on.”

“Wise man.”

*****

James’s father waited for the noise to fade, then emerged from the alleyway and hid behind a car. The group of figures, screaming and roaring like a football crowd, were further down the street. As he watched, they stopped at a house or a shop and flooded inside, returning to the street with screaming people, or parts of people.

What is wrong with them? He had hidden from a few earlier, while James had been unconscious, and had observed their behaviour at close quarters.

They resembled a typical rowdy gathering in a street, but even from this distance their skin looked strange, their expressions unusual, they moved oddly, and the sounds that emanated from their mouths were more animal than human.

There was only one logical conclusion for the behaviour on such a widespread scale. They’re not human any more.

The crowd moved on to another house, and this time a bawling teenage girl was thrown out of a top floor window. She landed heavily on the pavement, and even from his hiding place James’s father winced at the cracking of her bones. Immediately several of the crowd leapt on her like ravenous dogs, clawing and scratching at her clothes and then leaning their mouths close in. A crimson puddle formed around her.

He scanned the scene for a moment and his blood turned to ice. His willpower drained away, and he sobbed uncontrollably for a few seconds.

In a moment of calm, he crept towards the alleyway, ready to head for the one place where he’d feel safe.

Before taking the last step away from the street, he turned back to the crowd.

One figure in particular seemed to be leading the feasting.

A figure wearing giant, bright white trainers with muddy soles.

That’s it then. He’s gone.

*****

As they headed for the shop, Mr. Shah idly wondered what his wife would think if she knew he was walking around town with an attractive young lady in tow. He smiled at the mental image of her reaction.

His mind drifted again, and he wondered where she was, whether news of what was happening had reached India and then, in a moment of shock, whether something similar had happened over there. She was thousands of miles away, but with no phones, no TV, no radio, no Skype, suddenly she felt light years away.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Alice.

He shrugged. “Whether what is happening here is happening everywhere or not.”

“No one knows. There were some reports earlier of the weird clouds elsewhere in the world, but everything’s gone silent since then.”

“Then maybe she’s OK,” he said, barely able to hide the waver in his voice.

“Who?”

“My wife. She’s in India.”

There was a pause. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

And I’m sure you tried your hardest to sound convincing there, thought Mr. Shah.

They stopped. On the opposite corner was the shop Alice had been sent to find. It looked undamaged, and unoccupied.

“In we go then,” said Alice. “I’ll see if there’s anyone in, you keep watch, OK?”

“OK,” said Mr. Shah. He turned his head from side to side as his companion walked over and tried the door.

Left: clear. Right: clear. Alice.

“It’s locked,” she called, turning to face him. “But the shutter is up. Shall I take a cricket bat to the glass?”

“Maybe check around the back first,” said Mr. Shah. “Maybe there’s an easier way in.” Left. Right. Alice. He shuddered as he thought about what looters might have done to his beloved restaurant. Pickled chillies and poppadoms are not normally high on most people’s survival menus, but there were some strange people out there.

Left. Right…

“You move one fucking inch, either of you, and I swear to God I’ll slice your fucking heads off.”

…Alice.

She stood with a man’s muscular arm around her throat, the edge of a large hunting knife gently teasing her jugular.

*****

James’s father ran back to his workplace. It was closed for the bank holiday, but a place of safety nonetheless. He needed to get out of town. He needed supplies.

He needed weapons.

Quickly, he filled a bag with food, and another with a tent and a sleeping bag and some water purification tablets. A pile of clothes was stuffed in, along with a few gadgets that might prove useful on the move.

His hand lingered over a family photograph. Him, his wife and James. His wife had died a few years earlier, but the James in the photo, a smiling, joyous, ebullient seven-year-old, was how he would live in the memory. Not that ghastly figure with the bloodstained mouth and the bright white trainers. The tears flowed again, splashing against the frame, forming little puddles over the smiling faces.

There was a rattle against the glass of the door, and he froze. Peering out through the shutters on the windows he saw what looked like an Asian man with a big bushy beard on the opposite side of the road, looking left and right, and a young girl pulling on the handle of the door.

He slipped his hand into one of the newly packed bags and pulled out a hunting knife. Waiting until both figures were looking away, he unlocked the door and rushed out, grabbing the nearest one in a chokehold.

“You move one fucking inch, either of you, and I swear to God I’ll slice your fucking heads off.” He was confused and bewildered. It wasn’t like him to threaten people, but he had no idea if these were even people.

The Asian man held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Please, sir, we mean you no harm. The world has gone mad and we are a group of survivors. We thought your shop might be of some assistance. We mean you no harm.”

Showing remarkable bravery considering she had a blade positioned centimetres from her trachea, the girl whispered, “It’s true. We’re escaping the town, and we need supplies.” He moved the blade away and released his grip, and the girl breathed deeply. “There’s a lot of very scared people. We’ve stocked up on food, and we have a fair amount of water, but what we really need are things to keep us comfortable in the countryside. Please help us.”

He nodded. “So you’re normal, then?”

“Very much so,” said the Asian man.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Nobody knows,” the girl said. “I have no answers at all. But right now we don’t need answers half as much as we need blankets and sleeping bags and firelighters and camping equipment and knives and…”

He considered the two strangers, brave enough to venture away from the group to seek supplies to help out a whole community. He nodded again, and gave them a smile, though his heart wasn’t in it. “You’re right. Come inside. We’ll load up and find your group.”

The girl grinned. “Thanks. I’m Alice, by the way.”

The Asian man stepped forward. “I’m Mr. Shah.” He hesitated for a moment. “But to my friends I am Ashraf, and you two are my only friends in the world right now.”

James’s father nodded. “Call me Smith,” he said, and the three of them walked into the shop.

THE END

Dear reader,

Thanks for downloading this short story.

The story in The Gathering runs parallel to that described in the opening chapters of the novel End Storm, available from Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk as well as all other Amazon stores!

End Storm Short Story #2, Second Chance, is also available on Amazon. Look out for a new book in the End Storm saga in the coming months, along with further short stories!

For announcements and information about new releases, please visit:

the author’s website at mazmarik.weebly.com,

his Facebook page (facebook.com/HoboMarik),

his GoodReads page (goodreads.com/MazMarik),

or follow him on Twitter (@MazMarik).

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Please note this short story was written in Britain by a British author, and therefore uses British spelling, vocabulary and grammatical conventions.

Kindle edition.

Copyright © 2012 Maz Marik

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

www.facebook.com/hobomarik

www.twitter.com/mazmarik

mazmarik.weebly.com

Cover design © 2012 Ish Ferris

###