Albert Peterson - The Hibernia Strain

He looks to be in his mid twenties, dressed like any average person, a white hoody over a t-shirt and jeans. His clothes are covered in stains of all kinds, most of which are quite obviously blood. His face is white as a ghost with a large, badly infected gash torn along his left cheek.

I bend over and look into his eyes. I get close and meet his gaze; I see nothing. No pain, no fear, no hatred, only drive, the drive to reach me. He’s not looking at my eyes; he’s looking at me, like I’m an object. I’m his goal, his sole objective in life.

The sheer single mindedness of him raises alarming implications. If you’re in a world full of pale faced spooks whose only purpose in life, even beyond their own safety and existence, is to reach you and end you, then what chance do you really have?

I stand back up and begin to contemplate the moral question as to whether I should leave him this way or finish him off, and if the latter, then how? Does it even really matter?

I look around at my handy work. All of this happened because of me. With the multiple mangled bodies gruesomely scattered around me I realise how unhinged my thinking was becoming. I was losing myself.

I glance back down and see the last of the group has stopped moving. His eyes are open and they’re no more dead now than they were a few seconds ago, but he’s gone. I just killed all these people, and I did it with a smile on my face. Does that make me a monster? I don’t feel any guilt or remorse. It was either them or us. The only feeling apparent to me at this moment is satisfaction in my victory.

I raise my hand to my forehead and turn around. Emma is standing in front of the jeep, motionless. Her face confirms it all. From what Matt said she’s seen some pretty messed up stuff and she kept it together but what I see in her face now is shock.

Her ruffled clothes are fluttering gently in the wind as it starts to spit rain. She’s standing in the beam of the one headlight left on the jeep with a slight slouch, putting all her weight on her left leg, clearly rattled after the crash. It’s shock on her face alright but she’s not looking at the bodies around our feet, she’s looking at me.

“What were you thinking? You could have killed us,” her voice is low and bewildered.

“You just killed all these people,” she continues, this time backed with a little more aggression.

The accusing tone of the statement hits a nerve and I feel the urge to defend myself. With renewed feelings of confidence in my recent actions; I begin to lay out exactly what’s on my mind.

“Look Emma, it’s time you realize things aren’t the way they were. We’re not driving to the shopping centre to buy skinny lattés. We aren’t obeying the same rules of society that we’re used to anymore. This is something new, and survival is the name of the game. It’s the law of the jungle from here on, ‘ Kill or be killed’, and these guys at your feet are the predators. We could never have out run them, I saw my chance and I took it. The reason they’re dead is because they came after me, and I was better.”

She’s not happy with my ranting, but offers no argument either. She’s smart, she knows I’m right.

Having said all that, it wasn’t that coherent and logically thought out in my mind as it was all happening. I was reacting on instinct and maybe something else, something more primal… but she doesn’t need to hear that.

The downpour that was threatening hasn’t arrived, and the clouds are parting just enough to reveal the sun hanging low in the sky.

I walk up to her and in a softer voice I say, “Are you hurt badly? Let me see your leg.”

She lifts up the hem of her skirt. The pain is evident on her face as she reveals a shallow scrape in the middle of some bad bruising that’s already starting to turn a yellowy purple.

“It’ll get worse before it gets better, but it’s nothing you can’t handle, from what I’ve seen,” I tell her in an attempt to be reassuring without sounding patronising.

She manages a smile as I dab away the blood droplet from between her eyes and before I can lower my hand she gently takes hold of it with both her hands.

“Oh, your finger!”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I reply.

We’re standing here motionless, hand in hand as the warm tones of the setting sun illuminate her face and the gentle breeze is playing with her hair. The space between us has reduced to nearly nothing at all.

“Thank you for saving us,” she says, almost whispering. The gaze of those big brown eyes of hers penetrates to my core.

All of a sudden there’s an uncomfortable pause. I get the feeling we’re both thinking the same thought, the thought that Matt’s dead, meaning there’s nothing wrong with this and even if he isn’t, we’re all adults here, surely he’s dead… isn’t he???

The pause turns into an eternity and I start feeling like a bastard. The moment passes and we both move off like it never happened. I’m not sure where either of us expected it to lead anyway.

The less time we have to spend on the road the better. It’s quiet now, but there could be another gang of spooks along to take over this group’s place at any time and the cars headlight will stand out like a homing beacon in the fading light.

I poke the bodies off the front of the VW and use the expended airbag to clean off as much blood and bits as I can. It’d be a shitty way to get infected.

Before we pull off, I kick out the shattered front window, which is going to make the rest of the journey very uncomfortable. Luckily, we’re not far from the hotel from what I remember.

I’m still buzzing after the pep pills and I want to be in control if we meet anymore trouble, so I take the wheel, which suits Emma fine.

I’m thinking clearer now with the blood flow restored back to my brain again after our close encounter . We’re not bad people, Emma and I; we’re just victims of being caught up in the moment and a very romantic setting. Well, except for all the corpses.

Humph, cock blocked by a dead man. You better be dead Matt, or else I’ll kill you myself.

I wake with an immediate understanding that I’m not alone in the room. It’s dark out with hints of silvery moonlight fighting to break through a cloud infested sky.

I can just about identify the outline of the shadowy, hooded figures that surround me on all sides. I don’t know how they could’ve gotten in without me hearing them; I had the doorway so well blocked up.

My scrambling hands urgently search the bed covers for my sword. I can’t find it.

As my eyes grow more accustomed to my gloomy surroundings, I notice one of the prowlers removing something from under his attire. It’s my sword. The cheeky bastard. I resort to hurling curses towards them.

Two grab me from either side before I get a chance to move, and hold me down by my shoulders while two more restrain my legs.

The evident ringleader proceeds to slowly extend the blade in my direction until its smooth flat side lies flush against my face. The cool steel would be refreshing against my warm flesh if it wasn’t being held in such a sinister fashion.

He flicks his wrist and I wince in pain as the tip slices my skin. I try to scream but my throat feels like its paralysed. No sound will come out no matter how hard I try to summon it. I’m powerless to do anything.

Without warning the hands that were restraining me remove themselves and I have my freedom of movement again. I scuttle backwards until my back is jammed up against the headboard.

With no sign of an escape route I decide to position myself in a cradle like pose with my knees tucked in to my chest, and I bury my head down into my lap. It’s the same defensive stance that I used to take if I got scared when I was a kid.