Simon Spurrier - The Culled

It had been a tense couple of days, since.

I sat it all out in the flat. It had changed since that gloomy day when I got the text, when the removal guys failed to show up, when the ambulances streaked past one after another. Now the fish tank lay smashed on the floor, the CDs were all off the shelf in a heap, a couple of pot plants were turning slowly brown with their stalks broken and roots unearthed, and the front door sported a few splintered little holes where I'd shot it – for no reason other than to let the neighbours know I was armed.

I'd had a tantrum or two, that's all.

The phone hadn't rung. There were no more text messages. Nothing.

Oh, and, PS: nuclear bombs may be about to fall.

Not the best week of my life.

The point was, on this day, when the catchphrase comedy was blissfully interrupted and the serious little NEWSFLASH screen cut-in without announcement or music, pretty-much every poor beleaguered fucker in the entire city leaned a little closer to the set, and held their breath.

It was a new face behind the news desk – even younger than the last one, with an untidy mop of hair and a thick pair of glasses that reflected the shimmering blue of the autocue off-puttingly – and he cleared his throat agonisingly before beginning.

What he said had nothing whatsoever to do with bombs.

"Good afternoon," he said. I almost laughed. "A UN-sponsored team of researchers based in the United States have today released a statement regarding the unknown sickness that is now estimated to have struck two thirds of the countries of the World, and shows no sign of abating. Despite the poor quality of the signal, agencies still in contact with the BBC across the Atlantic have confirmed it to be genuine, though its source is as-yet unknown.

"According to the report, the disease targets particular biological conditions with a precision formerly unknown in medical science. Referred to by the unnamed author of the report as the 'AB-Virus,' the infection – which is airborne and requires no physical contact to transmit – attacks red blood cells at an unprecedented rate; causing muscular, respiratory and cardiac failure within days."

A cut-rate graphic appeared on the screen: a crude image of eight identical human silhouettes, in two rows of four columns. Headers across the top of the table read A, B, AB and O, whilst the rows were marked with simple mathematical symbols for positive and negative.

"Oh shit…" I whispered. The penny was beginning to drop.

"Each person," the voice continued, settling into a sort of cod-documentary narration, "possesses one of four distinct types of blood – known as phenotypes. These are characterised by the various protein markers, or 'antigens', upon the surface of each red blood cell. So, people of phenotype 'A' have A-antigens," here the first column of the table lit-up in lurid yellow, "and people of phenotype 'B' have B-antigens. Those whose blood-type is 'AB' have antigens of both varieties, whilst those with no antigens at all belong to phenotype 'O'."

In each case the strip of yellow highlighting clunked its way along the table. I felt like I was watching one of those godawful educational videos they used to crack-out in biology lessons at school, with the unconvincing sexual metaphors and the pulpy innards of rats and frogs.

"The practical effect of this system is to determine what blood-types are safely viable for transfusion into medical patients. Patients of blood type 'A,' for example, cannot be safely given blood of any phenotype containing 'B' antigens and vice-versa."

The voice drew a breath. It was hardly compelling viewing, but I didn't envy the poor bastard delivering it. It was like 'Doomsday-By-Boring-Science.'

I guess even then, at the back of my mind, knowing as I did that I hadn't felt a twinge of sickness, and being all too familiar with my own medical stats, I knew what was coming.

"The categorisation is further complicated," the voice droned, "by the presence in most people's blood of a further protein marker: the so-called 'rhesus' antigen." Here the entire upper row illuminated, like a bad version of a Connect-Four game show. "Any person with Rhesus-positive blood cannot viably donate to those with Rhesus negative blood, whose bodies contain natural antibodies to defend against the antigen."

I caught a sudden mental picture of filthy people all across London, clustered into makeshift bomb-shelters, trading bewildered glances and muttering "Wassefucken' talkin' baht?"

The newsman continued, a little shakily.

"The UN report makes it clear that the virus, once contagion has occurred, will specifically target red blood cells bearing antigens of any type. So any person of phenotypes A, B, or AB; or of Rhesus-positive blood, is susceptible to infection."

On the screen, the little graphic changed, a crude red 'X' appearing upon each and every cell within the table, except for the last one.

"Subtle." I said to nobody.

The camera cut back to the guy behind the desk. He looked tired, and someone had nipped-in to yank off his glasses during the off-screen monologue, so now he was squinting comically at the autocue.

"If the report is correct," he said, "less than seven percent of the population of the United Kingdom – those of phenotype O-Negative – are safe from infection."

He coughed quietly, glanced off-camera for a moment, and then licked his lips. He knew what was coming.

"The report ends… The report ends with a summary of the research team's attempts to develop a treatment for the 'AB-Virus'. Viewers… Uh. Some viewers may find the following audio file disturbing."

I laughed again, bitter.

"Yeah…" I said. "Yeah. Because telling nine-out-of-fucking-ten people they're going to die isn't at all disturbing, mate, is it?"

The poor kid was up out of his chair – face crumpled in disgust – before the image even blurred away into a bland red screen with the astin 'UN RESEARCH REPORT.'

A man's voice – American – came out of nowhere:

"As to our findings regarding the… ugh… the… hnh…" A thick bout of coughing broke through the signal; ugly sounds of spittle flying and phlegm being swallowed, which lapsed by degrees into silence. Machinery and murmuring voices sounded quietly in the background. The voice started again, dry and uncomfortable. "-the treatment of the virus. We've… We've found nothing. No way to stop it. It obeys all these… these rules we don't understand, but even so… every division is a… a new strain. You treat one – kill it, even – the next one's different. It… hnnk… it can't be sto…"

The voice broke off again, the coughing far uglier this time, interrupted with staccato grunts of pain and short curses. It softened slightly – the speaker moving away from the microphone – but the obvious pain of the fit was hardly diminished, and I found myself wincing in sympathy.

And then everything changed.

It was only quiet, but I heard it. There's no doubt. No fraction of uncertainty in my mind.

It was barely audible. It rose out of the background hubbub and the storm of coughing and wheezing dominating the signal, but oh God I heard it. I know I did.

"Lie him down!" A new voice said. Tinny with distortion and distance, but somehow resonant and deep nonetheless. "Get him down! And switch off that fucking micropho…"

The signal died.

The news programme stopped.

The repeat episode of Only Fools and Horses picked up where it'd left off, with canned laughter roaring out of the box.

Out on the streets of London, a low moaning, building through sobs and cries of horror, was growing all across the steepled skyline.

In my flat, I shot the door six more times, drank half a bottle of vintage single malt, and went out to start a fight.