Andy Lane - Slow Decay

With her last shreds of strength, she brought the gun down on Lucy’s head once, twice, and felt the girl’s grip falter. She brought both arms down to her waist, thrust them up between Lucy’s hands and then used what leverage she had to push Lucy’s arms outwards. The girl’s fingers reluctantly released their grip and Gwen sucked air noisily into her lungs as she backed away.

‘Don’t fight,’ Lucy whispered, crouching. Blood was trickling down her face from the wound on her scalp. ‘Fighting makes the muscles go all tense and bloody, but they taste better when they’re relaxed.’ Her gaze flickered sideways, to the remains of her boyfriend on the bed. ‘He was so blissed out, he didn’t even realise I was eating him. His muscles were like nothing I’ve ever tasted before. And his eyes… so, so sweet.’

‘Lucy, look at me. Look at me. Why are you doing this?’

‘Hungry,’ Lucy wheedled. ‘So hungry, all the time. Stomach feels like there’s something twisting around and around in there, and it’s never satisfied. Never ever satisfied. I have to eat all the time now, just to keep going.’

‘But not me.’

‘You’re the only fresh meat here,’ Lucy said, and launched herself at Gwen. She crashed into Gwen’s chest, carrying her backwards. Gwen’s feet caught in a piece of loose carpet and she toppled, Lucy’s weight carrying her down. The room twisted around her as she fell, then it fragmented into shards of light as the back of her head hit the floor beside the bed. Lucy’s weight fell directly on her stomach, driving the hard-won air from her lungs again. The girl’s knees slid to either side of Gwen’s chest, pinioning her. Hands held her wrists to the floor. The gun skittered away from nerveless fingers.

Pain scoured every nerve in her body, burning as it went. Gwen’s breath hissed in her swollen throat. She wriggled, but Lucy’s legs and hands were holding her body firm. She couldn’t move.

Lucy leaned forward. Her breath smelled rank. Shreds of bloody skin were caught between her teeth. ‘How romantic,’ she hissed. ‘Your flesh and Rhys’s, reunited inside me. The ultimate threesome.’

‘Why Rhys?’ Gwen panted. ‘I thought you fancied him?’

‘I do. But you don’t understand the hunger. Nothing is important compared to the hunger. It has to be satisfied.’

‘Even when it means your boyfriend has to die? Even when it means that Rhys has to die?’

Lucy winced, eyes blinking closed and then looking away. ‘It’s like breathing,’ she whispered. ‘Even if I try to stop, I can’t. I find myself just throwing food into my mouth to keep from screaming. Rice and bread don’t do it. I need fresh meat.’

‘But not mine,’ Gwen shouted, twisting her legs so that one of her feet caught beneath the edge of the bed. She bucked, almost knocking Lucy off her chest. Lucy let go of one of Gwen’s hands, grasping at the bedspread to keep herself from falling back. Gwen flailed around with her hand, looking for her gun but finding only something smooth and covered with fabric. Desperately she brought it up and hit out at Lucy’s face with it, realising only as it passed in front of her eyes that it was a woman’s shoe, black, probably a Manolo Blahnik knock-off, with four-inch heels.

The heel struck Lucy on her left temple, leaving a bloody gash behind it. She shot backwards, screaming, arms windmilling wildly. The back of her head thudded against the edge of the door, which had been left half-open when Lucy had pushed it earlier. It sounded resonant but liquid. Lucy bounced forward again, eyes wider than before but pupils rolled up so far they were staring at the insides of her sockets. Her head left a smear of blood and hair behind on the door. She fell towards Gwen, but Gwen rolled out of the way. Lucy’s face impacted on the carpeted floor, and she didn’t move.

‘You’re shit at this predator lark,’ Gwen said, lying back on the carpet as she tried to get her breath back. ‘You haven’t watched nearly enough David Attenborough.’

Marianne was changing into the clothes that Owen had gone out and bought for her. He’d retreated down to the far end of the cell area near the imprisoned Weevil while Marianne undressed and dressed again, the two of them like men waiting for their wives outside a boutique changing room. He even found himself glancing sideways at the Weevil and raising his eyebrows without realising what he was doing. The Weevil just stared at him from its deep-set, piggish eyes. He couldn’t tell whether it was sympathising with him or planning to rip his arms out of their sockets.

‘I never asked before,’ Owen called, ‘but what do you do?’

‘Eat and sleep and talk to you.’

‘I meant when you’re out in the real world. What kind of job did you do?’

‘I install computer networks for financial companies. It’s all right — I’m dressed now. You can come back.’

Owen walked the few metres down to the brick arch in which the armoured glass of Marianne’s cell was set. She was standing close to the glass, arms folded shyly in front of her. She was wearing a pair of tight brown slacks in a moleskin material, and a T-shirt top. ‘Looks good,’ he said.

‘You have interesting taste. I would never have thought to pair this shirt with these trousers.’

‘They look fine to me.’

Marianne laughed. Holding her arms out, she twirled for him. ‘Actually, it kind of works. Thanks for making the effort. I feel so much better in fresh clothes.’

‘And you look great,’ Owen said, appreciatively.

‘I feel OK as well. Look, I’m not even showing any symptoms!’ Marianne held her arms out for Owen’s inspection. The contrast between the brown, freckled skin on the outside of her forearm and the soft whiteness of the inside made him shiver with its unexpected sexuality. ‘See,’ she continued, ‘no rashes, no spots, no scabs or peeling, and no blisters. And I’m feeling OK. Really, I am.’

‘Problem is,’ he said, gazing at her through the armoured glass of her cell, ‘that we just don’t know how long the symptoms of Tapanuli fever take to emerge. And you may not be symptomatic, but you might be a carrier. We have to wait and find out.’

‘How long?’

He shrugged. ‘A week. I dunno.’

‘A week!’ She was on the verge of despair. ‘I don’t know if I can survive another week in this place. I mean, the company’s great, but…’

Owen wished he could tell her the truth. He thought she deserved the truth. Trouble was, he didn’t know what the truth was . Toshiko was still processing the ultrasound scans of Marianne’s body and, given that the blood tests had shown nothing particularly out of the ordinary, there was no way at the moment of knowing what was wrong with her. As a doctor, he was stumped. Why had she attacked people, tried to eat them, and then tracked the Weevils through the city centre with a view to turning them into a mobile fast-food franchise?

‘You’ll survive,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

She glanced up at him from beneath long eyelashes. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Your colleagues don’t like me much, I know. You’re the only one who treats me like a person, rather than a lab rat.’

‘I’m sure they’d like you if they got to know you,’ Owen said defensively.

‘The Japanese girl doesn’t want to look at me. She just comes in every now and then, points some gadget at me, makes it go “bleep”, then goes away again. The American guy just stares at me for a while, wearing that big coat of his, then he goes away as well. He seems to spend more time with whoever it is in the cell down the end than he does with me. I can hear them talking — well, I can hear him talking, but I can’t hear what he says. There was another woman who I saw on the night I was brought here, but I haven’t seen her again. And there’s a young bloke. I think he wears a suit. Sometimes, when I’m trying to sleep, and I turn over and open my eyes suddenly, he’s standing there, watching me, but he always moves away quickly, before I can focus on his face.’