Rich Hawkins: The Last Plague

“Can the infected swim?” asked Joel.

“I hope not,” said Frank.

“We’ll be okay,” Anya said.

Ralph looked out to sea. “Now we just have to wait. Fucking great.”

They had been waiting for over three hours without food, water and shelter from the elements. The landing craft from the ships constantly went back and forth delivering people to the safety of the waiting ships, but the beach was still packed with bodies. Soldiers deterred desperate refugees from diving into the water and swimming from the shore.

The smell of dead fish, brine and seaweed filled the air, carried upon the wind sweeping at the huddled masses. The waves pawed at the shore, frothing and churning. A few small fires had been started, scattered along the beach like small beacons. People gathered around them, warming their hands and faces. But most of the refugees were left in the cold.

Frank and the others were sitting in a small circle, shielding one another from the wind. Damp sand under their feet; granules of it danced in the cold sea breeze, invading their eyes and mouths, and sticking to clothes and skin.

“You think we’ll ever come back?” asked Anya.

“Not sure I want to,” said Joel. “The country is dead.”

Ralph scooped a handful of sand and then let it fall between his fingers. “If the whole world’s been hit by the plague, then it doesn’t really matter where we go.”

Joel shook his head. “There must be somewhere safe…”

“There is, somewhere,” said Frank, mindful of Florence next to him. “The navy will find somewhere safe.”

“I hope so,” said Joel.

Ralph muttered, “I’m not getting my hopes up.” He looked at the others and there was something dead behind his eyes. It unsettled Frank. “This is the end of the world, isn’t it? What will happen to us once we get to safety? Will we be running and hiding every day for the rest of our lives?”

No one answered. Ralph was right, but what else could they do? Give up? Frank couldn’t give up while Florence was still alive.

“These are the last days,” said Ralph. “And this is the last plague. I’m glad I’m not religious, because I’d be shitting myself right now.”

“What do you mean?” Joel asked him.

“Think about it. If you’re a believer in God and Jesus Christ, how does that fit in to all of this? How could God let this happen?”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” said Joel.

“Really?” said Ralph. “Surely it is that simple? All of these people around us, these refugees who were just ordinary people not even a fortnight ago, with lives and jobs. Families. Birthday parties. Roast dinners on Sundays. Hangovers. Bank accounts and mortgages. Loans and bills. That Monday morning feeling at work. Remember the mundaneness of the old world, and remember it well, because it’s gone forever, my friends. All gone. And God hasn’t lifted a finger to help us.”

Joel was shaking his head. He stared at Ralph until Ralph looked away. Anya touched Joel on the shoulder and he turned to her and accepted her head on his shoulder.

Ralph started picking his teeth.

Frank looked up and saw the soldiers glancing nervously at the road leading into the town.

Something cold and wet bristled in his stomach.

“I’m hungry,” said Florence.

“So am I,” Frank told her. “We’ll have something to eat when we get on the ship.”

She clutched her belly. “Okay.”

He smiled at her and the corners of his mouth hurt.

A terrible shriek rose from within the town. It rippled through the crowded beach.

Ralph took his finger out of his mouth.

“Oh shit,” said Joel.

The infected streamed out of the streets. The swarm from the camp had arrived. Victims of the plague and those recently welcomed to the swarm.

The soldiers opened fire.

The crowd turned towards the sea. Frank grabbed hold of Florence. Bodies rushed around them. Joel and Anya gripped each other, desperate not to be separated. Ralph was moving with the tide of people, towards the water. The fires were trampled and extinguished by so many feet. Ashes and cinders flitted in the air.

Many people were fleeing into the water, attempting to swim to the ships.

Frank glanced back. The infected were being shredded by suppressing fire. Grenades detonated with sharp concussions, throwing infected bodies into the air and slicing the swarm with hot shrapnel. Bodies fell and lay twitching; others were ripped apart by automatic fire. Death-screams and gurgles from torn throats.

But the infected were still coming, pouring through the streets.

There were not enough soldiers to hold them back.

The refugees stampeded towards the shore. The landing craft hadn’t returned yet. Frank was terrified that they wouldn’t return at all. People were screaming, shouting, wailing, crying. The soldiers at the shore who’d been organising the loading of refugees onto the landing craft were trying to hold the people back from the water. Men and women fell down in the shallows. Some were trampled. Others drowned in less than a foot of water. There was red in the surf. One of the soldiers fired his rifle into the air, but to no effect on the refugees, who simply engulfed him. Parents carried their children to the water’s edge. A few refugees had thrown themselves into the sea, attempting to swim to safety. Some people had been knocked down on the beach and were now crawling towards the shore on their hands and feet. Some were lying prone, dead or unconscious.

Frank stumbled, knocked from all sides by flailing arms and elbows. A hand struck him in the face and he reeled away, stunned, but still holding Florence. He would not let go of her. They were in the middle of the crowd. Frank couldn’t see the water past the scrum of bodies. A woman was screaming next to his face, deafening him temporarily.

The ground was trembling underneath him.

Behind him the infected were coming forward under withering fire. Machine guns opened up, ripping into their ranks. Frank wondered how much more ammunition the soldiers had left.

“The boats are coming back!” someone in front of him shouted. The crowd broiled. Utter confusion and chaos. The light dimmed. Frank couldn’t move; he and Florence were hemmed in tight. She was crying. He kissed the top of her head said that everything would be okay.

More gunfire from the water’s edge. Were the soldiers firing upon the refugees? Frank glanced at Joel, Anya and Ralph. He dug his feet into the sand and pushed forwards, struggling through the bodies, determined to get to the water. An elbow clocked him in his right eye and his vision swayed. Behind him he could hear the others following his lead. Ralph was shouting.

Frank stumbled forwards. Cold water up to his ankles like metal encasing his skin. He could hear the landing craft approaching. People begging for help. The soldiers were shouting.

The gunfire behind him lessened. The soldiers were falling to the infected. And then there were screams from the back of the crowd. The infected were amongst them, ripping and tearing. People collided with one another, fell down, were crushed. Bones snapped. Bodies left helpless on the sand. People collapsed, peeled and emptied like treats.

He had to get to the landing craft.

Bullets shot through the crowd. A man’s head became red mist and splinters of bone. Another man was caught in the shoulder, and he went down and was trampled, broken and cracked open.

Frank kept hold of Florence. He clung to her so tight that she whimpered. Looking back, he saw people being dragged down, swamped by the rampaging infected. Their screams didn’t last long.

He saw a woman, coated in fluids, her arms like scythes. Bony spines had erupted from her back. She had lost most of her hair, and her knees were bending the wrong way. She was removing a man’s throat with her puckered mouth. And there were others, their gaping mouths delivering the most awful of sounds, like newborn things being pulled from primordial mud. Hungry mouths. The hungriest mouths. Wet grimaces that could have been smiles. Sharp-toothed things with shivery breath, their eyes loose and grey within their sockets. Engorged growths consuming faces, and limbs melding together. Naked, lurid bodies.