Forgotten Fears Read online

  FORGOTTEN FEARS

  MICHAEL BRAY

  Copyright © 2015 Michael Bray

  http://www.michaelbrayauthor.com

  The moral right of Michael Bray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ASIN: B00WOLEIDI

  THE BEGINNERS GUIDE TO DEATH

  ONE NIGHT IN OCTOBER

  SOMETHING IN THE DARK

  WATCHERS

  FIRECRACKER

  GONE FISHING

  SCRATCHERS

  SEAT 6A

  THE BIRTHDAY

  FACES

  GRANDPA

  THE BEGINNERS GUIDE TO DEATH

  [I wrote this one for an anthology which for whatever reason didn’t ever get released. A more traditional zombie story than some of my other approaches at tackling the genre, this is a fun little story which I quite liked again on second reading when compiling work for this collection.]

  EVERYONE KNEW THE end had come. We saw it on TV, at first, and then we saw the same thing out of our windows in the streets. It didn’t hit home for me until I saw old Mr. Simms who owned the convenience store, on the corner eating that woman.

  He was on his knees, arms covered in gore as he scooped the poor girl’s innards into his blood-streaked mouth with a stupid, shit-eating grin on his face. I had known the old man for years, but to look at him through the gap in the curtains from my apartment, ( located in a, frankly, shitty part of town above a Chinese takeaway) I realised that the old man I knew was gone and whatever had been left behind was something else entirely. It reminded me of the time I saw my father’s dead body in his bed after cancer had finished eating him down to the bone. I remember looking at the frail corpse and wondering why everyone around me was crying. My mother asked if I was okay, to which I replied that I was fine because whatever spark that had driven my father in life was gone, and what remained was an empty shell. That, ladies and gentlemen, was my first experience of dealing with death, and I'm sorry to say it wasn’t the last, which, in part, is why I’m writing this all down by candlelight so as not to draw attention to myself. See, it's dangerous out there. Not only with the dead things like Mr. Simms, but the looters, and rapists, and murderers who are using the end of the world as a green light to go crazy. I sometimes wonder if they have the right idea, and I’m the one in the wrong. After all, it might be better to go out doing something you love rather than hiding away hunched over a notepad by candlelight. Then again, maybe not. At least, I’m in control of my own destiny, which brings me to the reason for my scribblings this bleak Tuesday evening. Let me set the scene. It’s a little after seven p.m., and it’s raining outside, although that isn’t stopping the biters or the crazies from going out and looting the same stores for the hundredth time. There isn’t much left out there, but I think they do it just for the hell of it. I have been lucky, in that the takeaway which I live above had nothing of value to steal, so other than a few broken windows I’ve been pretty much left alone. Even so, I’ve barricaded the door leading from there to here just to be sure, and I have a ready-made escape route via the fire escape if I should need it.

  If I were to lean out of the window now, I would be able to smell smoke, rot, and blood, and all would be accompanied by the sounds of screaming, the crackle of fire, and breaking glass, so I pretty much keep to myself. My inventory, for those who are interested, is as follows.

  The trusty old Toshiba laptop on which I’m writing this. (70% battery power left)

  6 cases of 24 bottles of Evian water

  50 cans of beans (Heinz)

  26 cans of tuna (unbranded)

  40 jars of Kenco coffee (who doesn’t love a morning brew with the apocalypse)

  Assorted medical supplies (looted from the chemist)

  Three boxes of peanut butter snickers, one of which I am enjoying right now.

  Oh, I also have a syringe full of infected blood taken from the biter I killed a half hour ago, and whose stinking corpse is festering in my kitchen.

  See, I’m a realist, and as much as I thought I wanted to survive, at first, I realised that I was only going through the motions because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. Call it stupidity, or maybe there’s just an inherent flaw in human nature which makes us strive to do what our fellow man says we should do. But then I started to think about it, and asked myself, what kind of life would it be? Cowering in the dark, scrounging around for food. Sure enough, I have plenty of it for now, but what about when it runs out? What about when I have to venture outside to find more, or if one of the looters decides to burn down Mr. Woo’s takeaway above which I live? I thought about that, and then I thought about old Mr. Simms and that goofy, happy look on his face as he scooped out that poor girl’s innards, and shoved them into his mouth. He didn’t have any of those same burdens. He didn’t have to worry about those same things. He was happy. Content. Maim. Kill. Eat. Repeat. Simple.

  When you think about it, what’s here for the rest of us is no life, and certainly not one that I want to live. It was then that I decided to take action, and determine my own fate, and maybe, just maybe help those in the world who are tasked with trying to stop this thing.

  Good luck with that.

  So, my friends here is the plan. I will inject myself with the needle full of infected biter blood and log, for as long as I can, the process of change. A real-life human experiment which may or may not help, depending on if anyone happens to find these notes.

  If I’m honest (and since I’m here alone, I don’t see why I can’t be), I’m afraid. Terrified, actually. But I’m not as afraid of turning as I am of trying to survive, knowing that I could starve to death, be murdered by looters or eaten by one of the infected. None of those scenarios appeal to me, and so I have chosen to go out under my own terms. Before I begin, I would just like to say that, however, you may view my actions, they’re not born from selfishness or disrespect. I love life. I loved living, but I also know that the world as it is now isn’t one where I want to be. In closing, wish me luck with this, and I hope that the notes which follow will one day help someone.

  Best,

  Gerrard.

  5:17pm

  I have injected myself in the right leg with the needle full of infected blood. I had expected to maybe go into spasms or convulsions, but other than the rush of adrenaline and fear, which I could almost taste, there was no discernible immediate reaction. Is it odd that I was a little disappointed with this? One other thing to note is that although I drew the needle full of blood from the biter almost an hour before I injected it into myself, it was still warm when I picked up the syringe, and it hadn’t clotted. Either way, it’s inside me now and my entire world has become the clock on the wall. I wonder if it will hurt when my body dies? Or maybe I’ll be like the plot of some Hollywood blockbuster, and find that I’m immune, although it’s unlikely. Lucky shit like that never happens to people like me. I’ll report back as soon as symptoms start to show.

  5:22

  I think I just felt the first symptoms. I have started to sweat, and my heart is beating way faster than it probably should – although that could just be the excitement/nerves about what I’m doing. I actually closed my eyes and tried to just listen to my body, to see if it was doing anything out of the ordinary, but other than my bad left knee and the sweats, it’s telling me nothing new. I am starting to feel a little jum
py, though, and my stomach feels greasy and tight, but again, that could just be nerves.

  5:27

  Something is definitely happening. I’m drenched in sweat, and my body is starting to twitch. Why is my heart beating so fast? If I wasn’t going to die anyway, I would be worried about cardiac arrest! Ha! Does killing a biter make me a bad person or doesn’t it count because it’s already dead? I keep getting stomach cramps, and I’m pretty sure the blood I injected into me is working its magic. I wonder how long I can last. I’m aiming for an hour, or as close to 6:17 as possible. We will have to wait and see. All I know is that right now I don’t feel too good.

  5:39

  Passed out, I think.

  One second I was clinging to the edge of the desk and trying to ride another wave of stomach cramps, and the next I was on the floor, curled up and clutching my belly. I thought I had been drooling, but when I looked at the carpet, I saw blood there. It looked almost black in the gloom, and I’m starting to think I have made a terrible mistake. The cramps in my belly are getting worse, and I’m starting to think they are hunger pains, although if they are, then canned tuna and beans probably won’t cut it! HEHEHE!

  God, I need to calm down. My nerves are on fire, and my head feels as if it’s underwater somehow. Maybe a bite to eat could help these cramps a little? God knows it’s worth a try.

  5:44

  No go on the eating. With some effort, I managed to open a can of tuna, but as soon as that fishy smell reached my nostrils, I projectile vomited all over the side. That, in itself, was bad enough, but there was blood mingled in with the bile. It seems that whatever is inside me is trying to rearrange my innards, somehow. My entire body aches now, and I have had to take off my t-shirt, as it was clinging to me. For as wet as my skin is, my throat is dry, yet when I tried to have a drink of water, it was like someone jamming their fingers down my throat, and I brought it straight back up, this time with a few fleshy lumps of my stomach. I’m not sure what part of me it was. It was a reddish-pink lump about two inches long, but I presume it’s not vital to my ability to function, as I’m still here. Either way, the missing body part is here on the desk in front of me just in case I need it later. Good God, this pain is unbearable. I’m seriously considering abandoning this little experiment and chugging down the painkillers I have stashed away in the bedroom, although I suspect they won’t work even if I did.

  One positive note, though, is that I’m nearing my one-hour goal. It’s exactly 5:45, which means I only have to last another thirty-two minutes to reach my target.

  6:01

  Somebody, please make it stop. Why did I do this?

  6:04

  My wife is alive.

  My wife is dead.

  My wife is alive.

  My wife is dead.

  My wife is alive.

  My wife is dead.

  My wife is alive.

  My wife is dead.

  My wife is alive.

  My wife is dead.

  I’m not even married. But I sure am hungry.

  6:06

  Please, just let me die already.

  6:09

  Swallowed all the painkillers. My body tried to make me spit them back up, but I refused to let it, counting backward from ten until they stayed in my stomach. I hope they take effect soon, and I fall asleep. My nerves are on fire, and I’m starting to see things. My father is here, and he’s been dead for ten years now.

  6:14

  Had a lovely chat with father. Told him what I did, then ate his face. It was delicious. Threw up all over myself. Just blood and sleeping pills.

  6:17

  There. That’s an hour, now please just let me die.

  6:20ish

  Am I dead, is this what it is? A perpetual agony? Is this hell? God, I’m scared.

  6??

  I'll fucking kill that old Mr. Simms. This is his fault. How could I know it would hurt so much?

  Bastards all of them. Hard to9 type now, coordination bad but I’ll xfc keep trying..

  6:666452rfgc

  So mch painm i.,. cnt stand.,fd mucjh morew…

  6:40

  I'll call him Bertie. Berhgie the biter who’s bloood I…

  No thast wojhnt work. Zdf

  How about:

  Bertie blod on a littel neesafdle,

  All I needfg to keep j me evil…

  Please just die.

  6:44

  Night fever, night fever weeeeeee!

  God I'm hungry. Something rare and bloody. Father agrees, and heeeeees been dead for years hahahah! gsth

  6:52

  Cant vbreathe5 i thindk thiss is it.

  how longhg did I lastg????

  I’m so so hungry, I think itsgd timew to stepkl outside for a bite to eat.

  ONE NIGHT IN OCTOBER

  [This is a bit of a departure from the norm for me. I normally don’t stray into anything too graphic or extreme (although recently I have dabbled in this area in some co-authored works with Matt Shaw. Before all that, this was my first foray into the extreme. This story was written in mid-2013, and had been part of a Splatterpunk anthology. I present it here for the first time as part of this collection.]

  I HAVENT MOVED for hours Lying here in the dark, ignoring the cold and damp, and the mildew smell of this rotten shithole of a house, I wait. My brain is a stew, a melting pot of emotions. I realise that I am as cold and barren as this room. The floor is bare apart from the army of empty vodka bottles which stand as a testament to the lifestyle I chose. They shimmer in the moonlight and remind me that I have a pretty severe drinking problem. Rats scratch and scurry in the walls, and rotten pipes drip their monotonous song. I’ll be the first to admit it. This house is a shithole, but at least it’s mine. I don’t have power or hot running water. The walls are thick with black mold that spiders up from the floor, and the sickly yellow wallpaper hangs off in great, wet sheets. Still, I can’t complain. I manage to get by. Cold baths are the perfect penance, the ideal way to cleanse me after I have done the work, and that, as I lie here is what I’m contemplating. I turn my head, feeling the clammy touch of the filthy pillow – the one I use to sleep on and, when the mood takes, stick my dick in. It's crusty familiarity doesn’t bother me, nor does the smell, not anymore. Outside, is a typical English October night. Winds rock the broken house, and drizzle tickles the window pane. I can almost imagine that it is calling to me, telling me to venture out into the night and do what I do best.

  As much as I tell myself that I can’t really be bothered, that I’m not in the mood, I know it's bullshit. Like any addict, I know I’m a slave to it, and a little rain won’t stop me. Hell, I would go out if fireballs were raining from the sky. Welcome, my friends, to addiction.

  I feel something stir in my gut; the dark thing that lives there demands to be sated. Blood rushes to me, and I find myself stiffening. It’s only the anticipation of what I’m about to do that usually makes that happen, and I’m resigned to another sleepless night. I pull the pillow from under my head and push down my tatty shorts. As I slide myself between the pillowcase cover, I start to think about the act.

  The warmth of viscera as I squeeze it like tripe between my fingers, the taste of hot, copper blood as I drink it from dying, depressurised veins. God, it’s divine. I think about my first, a sweet girl who I met at a bar. For all the days that blend into each other, I can still remember her. Brown hair, blue eyes. Strong cheekbones. A moan escapes me, and I increase the tempo of my movement and arch my back, pushing my head into the mattress.

  I remember the way she looked as I strangled her, the desperation in her eyes as I squeezed her neck hard enough to burst the blood vessels in her eyes. She wept tears of blood, and as that image came to me, so vivid and detailed even after eight years, I shot my warmth into the pillow, gritting my yellow, gappy teeth in ecstasy as I murmur my bitch of a mother’s name.

  This is my life. This is the life of a killer.

  I’m addicted to two things. Sex a
nd murder. Neither seemed to do it for me alone and so it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to combine the two. I’m still not entirely sure if I’m going to venture out or not tonight, but the black thing inside that guides me seems active, so you never know. Anyhow, let me tell you a little bit of my modus operendi, as it were.

  I always like to strangle my victim. Always from the front so I can see the light go out in their eyes. That’s when I open them up. Pubic bone to the ribcage. I have a really good strong knife for that, part of an old doctors kit that I picked up at in a second-hand store a few years back. I love to see how people tick. Such complex things. I like to feel the textures, to get the insides outside. I like to squeeze the intestines like tripe. I like to touch the slippery livers to my face, I like to open the stomach and see if I can identify what they last ate.

  I also like to fuck them.

  There is no shame in that. It’s just how it is. Some cultures fuck their dead until they start to rot. It’s nothing new. Not really. Besides, I do it a little differently. I like to straddle the head and fuck the mouth whilst I explore their insides. It’s such a rush. I don’t care who it is. Men, women, young old. All are the same inside.

  I can feel myself stiffening again as I think about it, and although I’m tempted to give my pillow another going over, I really do feel like I should go out and find someone.