Adam Baker - Terminus

Infected creatures blundered into the office. They burned and flailed, bounced off the walls and set the room alight. Flesh-stink and flame.

‘Come on,’ said Tombes, beckoning her down the narrow passage. ‘Let’s go.’

Hammering slowed to silence. Lupe pressed her ear to the door. She listened a full minute.

‘Anything?’ asked Cloke.

‘Nothing.’

‘Maybe they backed off.’

‘Feel the door.’

Cloke put his hand to the door.

‘Jeez. Baking hot.’

‘I’m going out there,’ said Lupe. ‘I’m going to take a look.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’ve got to know what’s going on.’

Cloke slowly pulled back deadbolts. He held the door handle, flinched as he gripped hot metal.

Lupe gripped the rusted pipe in both hands, ready to strike.

She gave the nod.

Cloke wrenched open the door.

They recoiled from acrid flesh-stink. Lupe waved her hands, tried to clear broiling smoke.

A corpse. A jumble of bone and smouldering rags lying on the tiled floor. The door was carbonised and blistered.

Lupe cupped a hand over her mouth. She pushed the brittle cadaver aside with her foot and edged into the ticket hall.

The hall was dark. The ceiling light was blackened with soot.

Lupe fumbled her way to the equipment pile and tipped out a couple of scorched nylon holdalls. She found a flashlight and switched it on. The beam shafted through smoke.

The hall looked like a battlefield. Bodies littered the floor. Spastic, contorted limbs. Grinning skulls. Seared flesh bubbled and smoked.

‘I’m going up top,’ said Lupe, gesturing to the street exit stairs. ‘We have to seal the entrance gate before any more of these bastards stumble down here.’

Cloke tossed her a respirator and gloves.

‘Don’t get careless. Close the gate quick as you can, then get back down here. Every second at the top of those steps is a second too long.’

Cloke returned to the plant room. He knelt beside Ekks. He checked pulse and respiration.

‘Still don’t like the sound of that chest rattle,’ he murmured.

He hung a clear bag of saline from a water pipe above Ekks and ran line to the cannula in his forearm.

‘Doctor, can you hear me?’

He leaned over Ekks and gently lifted an eyelid. He shone a penlight. Weak dilation.

‘Come on. Give me a sign. Move your fingers.’

No response.

‘We need you, Doctor. We have to know. The cure. How close did you get?’

No reply.

‘Please. Summon your energy, Doctor. Summon your strength. Talk to me. The cure. Did you succeed?’

No reply.

Cloke sighed and sat back. He glanced at Sicknote. The man was petrified. He was staring past Cloke, shocked rigid by what he saw.

Cloke felt hot, fetid breath on the back of his neck. He slowly turned.

Exposed muscle. Knotted tumours. Bared teeth.

‘Jesus,’ he murmured. ‘Galloway.’

Cloke was lifted clean off his feet. He tried to scream, but a hand clamped round his throat and cut off all sound. His legs danced in the air.

Sicknote watched from the shadows. He squirmed deeper into darkness. He suppressed a terrified giggle.

Cloke fought to release the hand wrapped round his neck. He punched. He strained. He choked as fingers dug into his larynx.

He looked down at the skinless, grinning skull-mask.

He shoved a hand in his pant pocket and retrieved a cyanide cylinder. He struggled to unscrew the cap with his thumb and forefinger.

Galloway slammed Cloke’s head against the wall. The cylinder fell to the floor. Brass chimed as it hit cement. The glass ampoule smashed, spilling droplets of amber liquid.

Sicknote squeezed his eyes shut and clamped hands over his ears. He sobbed. He bellowed ‘White Christmas’ to drown choking screams that reverberated from the plant room walls.

Galloway.

No longer human. A grotesque mess of metallic sarcomas and rotting, peeling flesh.

The creature hauled Cloke through the pipe.

It stopped. It listened to voices from the distant plant room.

Door slam. Shouts.

Hours ago, Galloway would have understood words, emotions. He would have recognised Tombes and Lupe, understood their anger and fear. But the insect intelligence behind his eyes simply heard human vocalisations at high volume. Alien animal barks.

Shadow and seclusion.

The creature’s vision cut through the tunnel darkness. It crouched over the prone man and surveyed every pore, inspected every bead of sweat, every fleck of blood. It caressed Cloke’s face and examined fingers wet with tears.

Cloke scrabbled at the tunnel wall. A chunk of brick. He gripped it in his fist and struck out, wild blows flung in total darkness, missing their target. Galloway watched the man flail with detached fascination.

Cloke adjusted his grip, drew back his arm and attempted to deliver a skull-crushing punch. He put all his strength into the blow. Galloway twisted his head to avoid the impact. Cloke’s fist slammed into the tunnel wall, breaking fingers.

Cloke lay back and sobbed. Galloway crouched over him, and studied the physiology of fear. Grotesque facial contortion. Eyes wide, pupils dilated with adrenalin. Cloke’s mouth pulled down like he was cartoon sad. A howling monkey-jabber of mortal terror.

The creature copied the sound. It emitted a harsh, braying cackle that reverberated in the tight space and echoed deep into the tunnel system.

Cloke thrashed as he was dragged across brickwork. He was drawn further into darkness, further from help. Mortar, sharp as coral, shredded his clothes. Fingers ripped and bloody, abraded to bone as he fought to grip the tunnel walls.

‘Stop,’ gasped Cloke. ‘Think. Remember who you are. You’re Galloway. Jim Galloway.’

The monstrous thing paused and turned. It leaned close like it was drinking the scent of fear.

‘Kill me,’ said Cloke. ‘Come on. Kill me now.’

The creature raised a hand.

‘Do it. Get it done.’

The hand slammed into Cloke’s belly. Talons broke skin. Cloke convulsed. He arched his back and screamed.

‘Oh dear Jesus.’

The creature drove a twisting fist into Cloke’s gut, tearing muscle, ripping skin. Cloke choked as his diaphragm was compressed, forcing air from his lungs.

‘Motherfuck.’

The arm pushed elbow-deep into a slurry of intestines, tearing the wound wide. Cloke’s scream turned to a blood-spray gurgle. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’

Galloway leaned over the gaping wound and slowly forced his head inside.

Lupe examined the conduit mouth. Blood and strands of fabric hung from torn wire.

She shone her flashlight into the pipe. Brickwork receded to deep darkness.

‘Maybe we should go after him,’ said Tombes.

‘Think he’s still alive?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Why take Cloke?’

‘Because he was the healthiest specimen, at a guess. Ekks is half dead and Sicknote has mush for brains.’

Tombes crouched beside Ekks.

‘Is he injured?’ asked Lupe.

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

Lupe shone her flashlight into the corner of the room. Sicknote huddled in shadow, rocking back and forth.

Lupe waved a hand in front of his face. She snapped fingers.

‘Hey. Sick. Can you hear me?’

She shook his shoulder. No response.

She crouched.

‘Dude. What happened to Cloke? Can you tell me what happened?’

Sicknote slowly raised his head and met her gaze. A twisted, sour smile. Then his eyes lost focus like he was looking through and beyond her.