Scenerymania entry: Nick never knew,

The light of day doesn’t chase away the
shadows. It simply outlines them.
You’d think that the sun would
burn away your fear like it would a morning
mist, but it isn’t so. In the day, the darkness
is deeper, blacker, contrasting with the white
light. At night, it’s absolute: everything is
cast in monochrome, each colour just
another shade of midnight blue. At night it’s
usually dark enough to warrant use of the
night vision specs and the thermal imaging
goggles. They’re a bonus. With them, you can
see a body’s heat through a wall. With
thermal imaging, you know where you stand.
Even with night vision, everything is clearly
outlined.
It’s in the daytime you see the
least. When the sun is approaching its apex,
when the infernal heat of that fiery ball beats
directly down on your back: that is when
you’re at our most vulnerable. Ironically, it’s
in the day that you can see the least.
As a child I used to be afraid of
the dark. Now the tables are turned. As an
adult, I loathe the day.
I rest my fingers on my handgun,
the cool in direct contrast with my hand. I
twist my head abruptly to one side, seeking
out the demons that dance at the corners of
my vision. But there’s nothing there: just my
mind, playing tricks on my jumped-up brain.
I’m as safe as can be. Nothing
with any semblance of intelligence would
dare attack us: an eight-strong team, armed
to the teeth and alert to every movement.
We’ve been through this before – raiding the
towns and villages where there are less of
them to deal with, taking what we can and
getting it back home safely. We’re always on
edge during a raid; always elated when we
get away with it. Some of us do it for the
adrenaline rush, others because we feel a
sense of duty towards the community.
Every man, woman and child still
alive has to be protected. It’s the cardinal
rule, the one we never break, that most
sacred of commandments. There is no ‘every
man for himself’ sentimentality. It’s ‘leave no
man behind’. We trust one another with our
lives. We have no choice in the matter. If we
don’t trust one another completely, then we
all die.
“I bet there’s a nest in the
hardware store,” comments Nick. “They flock
to places like that. I wonder what makes
them go there. What’s the appeal in a room
full of DIY equipment?”
“Maybe they’re suicidal,” proposes
David. He grins widely, staring past the street
“Back in the beginning, I smashed up a fair
few of ‘em with a two-by-four and it’s
difficult to forget the day I drilled a hole
through the centre of one’s forehead. That
must’ve been back when the energy grid was
still up...”
“Shut it,” hisses John, voice low.
“Do you want us to have to fight our way out
of here?” He glares at David, ice-blue eyes
boring into him.
“Relax – they’ll be asleep this
time in the day. Even if they are awake, they
aren’t going to come outside. You know how
they are with sunlight: they practically
develop melanoma at the sight of a clear
blue sky.” He smirks, but no-one else
appreciates the humour. Most of us just
aren’t in the mood.
As always, the street is empty
and broken. It’s the same across the country,
maybe even across the world: shop fronts
smashed from the riots, cars abandoned by
the curb, houses bleak, radiating lifelessness
with a quiet malice. No matter what town we
visit, they’re all identical: ghost towns, every
one of them, the inhabitants either dead or
changed.
Changed.
I shudder as I recall the changing:
the outbreaks, the newsflashes; the panic. I
screw my eyes shut tight, closing myself off
from the memories. I can’t afford to become
distracted now. There’s too much at stake for
that.
“What’s taking them so bloody
long?” seethes John. I grimace. John’s a
strange one. He gets angry anytime he’s
skittish and takes it out on everyone. A
remarkably sour character, he is. But one
can’t fault him: if we don’t deal with the
nerves somehow, guys go mad – women too.
I’ve seen it happen. Some folk just can’t
handle the violence or the brutality. Others
revert to their old view of the world, choosing
to believe that everything is as it used to be.
“Relax,” I say to him. “They’ll be
out soon. Just watch the streets. Wouldn’t do
to let one slip past, would it?”
John registers the point, but
doesn’t seem in the mood to verbally accept
it. It’s funny how different we are, me and
him: we may be the same age, but we’re
hardly typical eighteen year-olds. Then again,
can anything really be labelled ‘normal’
anymore? It seems redundant to tag anything
like that now. Normal... Ha! I would give my
left ear for a day’s worth of normality.
I know why he’s uneasy – we’re
all a little twitchy just now. Just last week,
they took Caleb; dragged him away into the
dark interior of a burnt-out building,
snatching him from the dying light of the
evening. We had to leave him. There was
nothing we could do for him. We had to leave
him there, in the dark, out of sight. But we all
heard his screams.
A crash resounds from a side
street all of ten metres away. My left hand
flies to my Beretta in its holster, fingers
twitching around the trigger. My right grabs
the grip of the hunting knife strapped to my
leg. I check the others, see that they’ve done
the same: Nick has his baseball bat hefted
high, as if ready for the bowler’s throw;
David’s AK is tucked in against his shoulder;
John’s thin arm holds his own handgun a
distance from his body, the barrel levelled at
the entrance to the side street.
We stand in silence, holding our
breaths in apprehension, eyes focused on the
entrance to that shadowed alleyway. But
nothing presents itself to us, neither man nor
beast. But still we poise, ready to unleash
hell on whatever horror the street may hold.
And then it rolls out: a dull metal trash can
lid, powered onwards by the wind.
The disc of silver settles in the
middle of the street with a clang. David
laughs nervously. “Ha! Are we men, or are we
mice? We just got spooked by a bin.”
“Shut it, Dave! I very nearly
dropped my guts.” I could see it in his eyes:
he had been well and truly scared. But
there’s no room for fear anymore – not
today.
“Man up, Johnny boy,” snaps
Nick, voicing my thoughts for all to hear.
“This is the way we live now. Get used to it.
Quit being afraid of your own shadow – it’s
inevitable that we’re going to have to fight
sometime, so stop fearing the idea.”
John fixes him with a murderous
stare, and Nick sighs. Adopting a lower,
calmer tone, he continues: “Look, we’re all
on edge. But if you continue going down the
road you’re walking along, you’ll lose your
mind. Seen it happen before. I don’t want
another insane kid on my hands.”
The boy drops his eyes, nodding in
reluctant agreement. I’m finding myself in
agreement with Nick, too: there’s nothing
worse than paranoia. I’ve experienced my fair
share of it in the past. But maybe Nick’s
wrong. Complacency will get you killed.
Paranoia might just keep you alive.
There’s a muffled bang from
inside the shop we’re guarding. We all twist
around, alert once again to danger. Through
the dirtied windows, we catch glimpses of
dancing silhouettes. There’s a crash and a
clamour to follow – a voice yelling.
“Oh, we’re deep in the doo-doo
now,” mutters David, and raises his assault
rifle once more.
The door flies open, and out
rushes a sweat-streaked woman, her face set
in determination. “Come on, get out!” she
yells, abandoning stealth and subtlety.
There’s only one reason that any of us would
be shouting in a place as dangerous as this.
A shiver passes down my spine.
Another forager – a man this time
– charges through the doorway pushing a
trolley loaded with supplies. Nick turns to
him.
“Where?” demands Nick.
“At the back,” he responds,
gasping for breath. “Half a dozen.”
“Damn,” he curses. “The others?”
“We can’t wait for them,” David
points out. “If they got caught, they haven’t a
chance in hell of surviving. All we can do is
hope they die quickly.”
Nick doesn’t say anything for a
moment. Shouts resound from within the
store, acting as catalysts to his thoughts. He
faces a decision here – a tough call. But
there’s really only one remaining option left
to us: get the hell out of here. The only
question is how long it’ll take him to reach
that conclusion. Get a wriggle on, Nick , I
think desperately. We haven’t the time!
“No,” he says, startling us all. “We
leave no man behind. David, John: stay here
and guard the others. Art: you’re with me.
Shoot anything that moves that isn’t us.” He
turns to the woman. “Fiona: your torch.”
She hands the torch across to him
as Nick tries to dissuade him. “This is
suicide, Nick!” he argues. “We need to-”
“We can’t lose them!” yells Nick.
“We simply can’t afford for people to die any
more. You want to leave? Fine – you have
the key to the truck. But you’ll have our
deaths on your conscience forevermore if you
go now.” And then he’s off, vanishing into the
shadows.
I groan. “To hell with it all!” I
declare. I draw the Beretta, and that’s it: I’m
running; running into the lion’s den.
I always did hate Mondays.
The interior of the store is dark and dusty.
Long-forgotten crisp packets sit beside
corrupted bags of sweets on shelves in the
abandoned aisles. It is strangely dead and
lifeless. In fact, it’s like entering a long-
sealed tomb - except for the shouting.
Angered cries echo back from
ahead. Nick stalks forwards quickly, his
baseball bat at his side, a beam of light
shooting from the torch he holds in his left
hand. The torch slices through the dark like a
knife, cleaving it in two with ease.
Nick gestures to me, and I pad
across to him as quietly as speed allows.
“What’s the plan?” I whisper to him. This was
his call – I’m kind of hoping that he’s had
some sort of inspiration.
“You run through the door and
shoot everything that isn’t one of our own.”
That’s a little worrying. “And what
are you going to be doing...?”
“I’ll follow, finish off those you
managed to down and then lead the others
out,” he states.
“You made that up on the spot,
didn’t you?” I ask, suspicious.
“I’m not denying it,” he says,
flashing me a slightly hysterical grin. But his
amusement is short lived. “On my signal, we
go. You ready?”
I nod uncertainly. I can still hear
them – yelling, crashing around. It sounds
like they’re struggling with something. We
have to act now, or there’ll be no-one left to
rescue. David was right, I think: This is
bloody suicide.
“Now!” says Nick, loud and clear.
I shoot off, rushing at the door leading
through to the storeroom, Nick right behind
me, the torchlight shining over my shoulder. I
unconsciously flick the safety off. My weapon
is ready to use. The good Lord knows that
I’m going to need it. And then we’re in.
A pair of fallen torches
illuminates the scene for us. A pale-faced
woman is locked in combat with an all but
unseen figure, using her long dagger to beat
it back. By her side is an older man, trying to
fight off another one of the shadowy figures
with a length of lead piping – a cruel parody
on the classic murder mystery game. There
are several more faceless figures stirring in
the corner. It’s now that I realise that Fiona
was right: we’ve disturbed a nest.
“Down!” I yell, catching the man
and the woman by surprise. I can’t wait for
them – I fire, taking down an attacker. It
collapses to the ground in a pool of blood.
They get the point now, ducking down as I
sweep the barrel of the Beretta across the
room, firing as I go. Another snarling creature
bites the dust, a bullet taking away the side
of its face.
I jerk my head backwards. The old
man gets the message: he drags himself and
his companion back, out of the storeroom.
Nick’s laying into the fallen monsters. But
there are more of them – and by now, they’re
quite active.
I swear and load another clip into
the Beretta. “Fall back! Retreat! Turn tail! Oh,
damn it, just get out!” I back away, gun held
ready to fire. I may have a clear shot, but I
hold back all the same: I can’t afford to
waste bullets. With no-one around to make
them anymore, we’ve got to conserve
everything we can.
I sweep up one of the fallen
torches and shine the beam at the knot of
things in the corner – and catch my first
glimpse of the Changed.
There are five of them – three
male, two female – their skin torn and
peeling. Like wallpaper in a long-forgotten
bedroom it flakes. These guys are far gone.
One of them, a male, stumbles forwards. It’s
the face I fixate on, the horrible apparition
searing its image into my mind: his face is
rotting away, the flesh an incomplete pale
sheet drawn across his face. Where there
should be a cheek there is a gaping hole that
reveals chipped and broken teeth, diseased
gums oozing blood and nameless
substances. A tangled, matted lock sticks to
the raw red flesh, plastered with plasma. His
scalp is all but gone, held there by but a few
remaining clumps of dark hair. His forehead
is swollen, a hideous growth covering half of
a bleary eye. All the same, those awful pupils
fix on me, burning with cold, dumb hatred. A
rivulet of saliva runs down his chin to join
the snot that falls from his nose.
The Changed fixes on me, utters a
slobbering growl that slips out past his
cheek. It reaches out towards me, torn
fingernails clawing at the space between us.
My face sets, hard as stone. I feel no pity for
this deranged thing that was once a man. But
I’ll do something for him anyway: despatch
him.
The impact spins him around,
smashing him into the main body of his
companions. I note with satisfaction that the
bullet’s taken the side of his head with it.
A hand clamps down on my arm –
strong, warm – not one of the Changed. “Get
a move on, Art! You want to die?”
I turn from the destruction that
I’ve wrought and run, hot on Nick’s heels.
But I can hear the Changed following after
me, blistered feet slapping against the floor. I
twist as I run; fire backwards. There’s a
muffled screech and something hits the floor
with a heavy thump. I pump my arms, run
on, a patch of light skittering across the
walls, the shelves and the floor as the torch
shakes in my grasp.
Nick stops abruptly a few metres
ahead of me. “Duck!” he yells, and I’m quick
to respond. I slide past on my knees, just
able to catch the sight of a baseball bat
connecting with the nose of a Changed,
smashing it to the floor.
Through the doorframe, I see the
light of day, bright and beckoning. If I pass
across that threshold, I’ll be safe. The
Changed won’t follow us if we get fully into
the light. I power forwards, my feet pounding
the floor, advancing along the aisles, past the
cashier, over the welcome mat...
And then I’m safe, spilling out into
the day. I fall to the ground, rolling back. I
feel strong arms pulling me back as I gasp
for breath, a voice shouting out.
Nick. Where is Nick? He was right
on my tail – where is he, damn it!? Through
the doorway, I can see nothing – but I hear
what’s going on just fine. The crack of bone
funnels itself down my ear canals, the shouts
of a man and the hissing snarls of the
Changed a hellish choir. “Nick! Get out of
there, damn it!”
That second stretches out
seemingly forever. In that moment, all I can
see of Nick is a moving patch of shadow, a
shadow that I imagine to be wielding a bat
as a club. But then that shadow’s moving,
getting closer, closer, closer...
The AK’s pointing into the black
again, and I know why. Nick may already be
dead. What’s coming towards us might be a
diseased monster as opposed to a loyal
friend. We can’t take any risks. And still the
shadow figure gets closer, until the light is
upon him.
David tightens his grip on the gun.
“Hold your fire! It’s me!”
Sweet relief washes over me as I
take in his grinning face, his fine, smiling
features glowing in the light. There’s not a
scratch on him: he’s completely unharmed.
He raises the baseball bat and
points to the assault rifle. “Careful where you
point that thing – I wouldn’t want to be a
colander, now would I?” He grins manically,
hyped up from the action. “Now, let’s see
about getting back to-”
He never gets the chance to finish
his sentence. A gnarled, blood-washed hand
curls round and digs its claw-like fingers into
his neck and wrenches back, tearing an
impossible gap in his throat. A ragged gasp
of pain and shock escapes his frothing mouth
as Nick collapses to the ground. And then we
see it: the Changed, the awful vehicle of that
hideous virus, its jagged teeth bared in a
growl of defiance.
Even as I empty the clip into its
bloated chest, I know that the action is futile.
With every twitch of my finger, I release
another projectile powered by hate and anger
and sorrow. But it all amounts to nothing as
the thing topples to the floor, lifeless eyes
staring into infinity; falls to the ground, to lie
beside him; spills its blood to mix with his.
I can do nothing to help. Because
Nick is dead.

This is an excerpt from "through those dark doorways" by timothy turpin on figment. You can read the whole story here