William Meikle: Infestation

Banks looked out beyond the beasts on the shore to the sea beyond. It was more slush than water and paddling through it in a kayak was going to be harder work than he’d like in this climate.

But it’s better than swimming.

“Good work, Sarge,” he said. “It appears we might have a plan after all.”

“We’ve got to get past these things first though,” Hynd said. “Any ideas?”

“I’m working on it,” Banks replied and finally turned away from the window to where Mac had finished patching up Nolan’s wounds.

“How’s the patient?” Banks asked.

“He’ll hurt like a bugger for a while but he’ll live; it looked worse than it was. It’s three deep cuts and a lot of scratches. He’ll need a new pair of trousers though.”

Banks addressed Nolan directly.

“How are you doing, lad? Can you put your weight on the wounds? Can you walk? We might be getting out of here in a hurry.”

Nolan smiled and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Ready when you are, Cap,” he said.

Mac tried to repair the gashes in the Irishman’s trousers by binding the scraps of material with wrapped bandages. They looked too white in the night vision glasses, too vivid a reminder of the savagery of the beasts outside the door.

As Banks turned away, light flared up in his night vision like a bolt of lightning as the power in the post office came on, the lights overhead flaring, accompanied by a distant thrum.

“I’ve found the generator,” McCally called from out back. “Let there be light.”

“Shut that fucking thing off, right now,” Hynd shouted but it was too late.

Banks removed his night vision glasses to allow his eyes to readjust and looked out to the shore. All the beasts had turned to move in their direction.

We’ve made them curious.

At least McCally had responded to Banks’ order. The generator went off again and the lights dimmed, the post office falling silent, but the damage had already been done. The beasts came on fast, swarming around the area beyond the window. The main door rattled as pressure was put on it from outside and Nolan suddenly didn’t look quite so happy.

Banks went back to night vision, then slapped a hand on the nearest wall.

“This place has concrete underpinnings and brick walls,” he said. “They can’t get in here; at least not easily. Keep calm, lads, we’re safe, for the time being.”

“How about the window, Cap?” Hynd said quietly, even as the creatures piled up against the wall, clambering over each other, the squirming mass already almost up to the level of the windowsill. As they climbed and scrambled, the blue luminescence intensified, almost as bright as the office lights had been seconds earlier.

“They can’t get in,” Banks said again, but now he was remembering the broken and torn doorframes of the other houses; the big front window of the post office was in a wooden frame. It looked solid enough but if these creatures found a weak spot, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t be slow to exploit it.

“McCally?” he said loudly. “Did you find anything useful out back while you were being a fucking idiot?”

“Just the generator. And a dozen twenty-liter containers of gasoline,” the Scotsman replied, returning into the doorway leading to the rear of the building.

“That might be handy; lead with that next time, before using your initiative; it doesn’t suit you.”

The main door creaked, a loud squeal, as if the metal frame had buckled. Banks stepped across the room to the alcove where the door was and saw the beasts clawing and scratching at the frame where it met the ground. The metal was being shredded and taken apart, almost as easily as if it too was just timber. The door shook and moved slightly, the weight of the beasts’ numbers pressing it open.

“We’ve got incoming,” he shouted.

Another squeal ran through the night as the filing cabinet scraped on the floor; it had taken two men to move it into place but the creatures pushed it in as if it was an empty cardboard box.

“Little fuckers are strong,” Hynd said as he came to Banks’ side. They switched on the flashlights on their weapons and trained them at the door but the beasts took no notice of the light and kept pressing the filing cabinet inward, the sound of screeching metal wailing and echoing around them.

Banks was aware of the rest of the squad moving to join them; Mac at Hynd’s side and the other three taking position behind them, ready to step forward when needed.

“Check those earplugs, lads. This is going to get noisy. Aim for the front end; if they’ve got brains of any kind, that’s likely where they’ll be hiding. Hitting the body hardly slows them down.”

He pushed his own plugs in as deep as he could get them, then gave his full attention to the doorway. The filing cabinet squealed even louder, moved six inches inward, and the first of the creatures scuttled through an opening that didn’t seem wide enough to accommodate it. Banks blew away the front of it, where he thought of as its head. It fell forward and went still. Two more scrambled over the top of it; Hynd put them down, the shots booming and echoing around them, deafening even despite the earplugs. Three more tried to come through and Banks was about to fire when he saw the ones behind had paused to feed on the fallen.

They’re cannibals.

That immediately brought another thought and this one was a plan, of a kind.

He turned to McCally.

“Take Briggs and fetch as much of gasoline as you can carry,” he shouted.

“What are you thinking, Cap?” Hynd shouted.

“A barbecue,” he called back. “A bloody messy barbecue.”

Then he had to shut up as the filing cabinet was pushed farther inward and half a dozen of the beasts filled the gap and came forward.

The air filled with the roar of rapid fire.

Svetlanova paused in her dictation; she’d heard the noise again and this time she recognized it for what it was: gunfire. It sounded too far away to be on board, too far away to be of any help to her and certainly not enough to shift her from her safe, for now, cubbyhole.

She knew she couldn’t stay here forever. But just a little bit longer. Please?

The overhead bulb had dimmed considerably now and she had to peer to see the stack of food and drink around her. Once the light had gone, she might be forced into having a look at what was outside the door. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t, for her nerves were shot to pieces already; she wasn’t sure how much excitement she’d be able to take before retreating into herself, to a quiet, safe place where things didn’t skitter and tear in the dark. The cold bit at her but that she could handle; it had nothing on a Moscow winter.

She took the opportunity to arrange boxes and bottles so she would be able to identify them by touch should the bulb finally give out on her and plunge her into darkness.

More gunfire sounded, the rat-a-tat still too distant to be of help but she felt something stir in her that hadn’t been there for a while. It felt like hope. But the feeling was short lived. As if in reply to the far-off sound, she heard something much closer; a scraping and scuttling outside the door of the pantry. She stood stock still, scarcely even breathing. She knew the isopods had no sense of smell as such but they had shown an almost preternatural ability to seek out food, especially fresh, or nearly fresh, meat. The light overhead was now so dim she saw blue flickering under the metal door.

It’s right outside.

The scraping got louder and her panic rose, threatening to engulf her, but when another burst of fresh gunfire roared in the distance, the scratching and scuttling moved off quickly.