Vivisepulture (20 page)

  Ben spent the afternoon in a daze, and his HELIX PC!!! sat uncomplaining on his desk with Space Tits happily flapping their way towards a dark and depressing infinity ...

  "Something’s wrong," he muttered.

  He was damn right.

Mongrel stood outside the towering BlueX Corporation buildings under pouring rain, twitching. The Mongrel usually twitched - on account of a wound he’d received during the Third Stone War whilst stealing a HTank. Now, rain ran in rivulets from his short, tufted brown hair and he waited with the patience of Fate.

  There came a distant
click.
Or so he imagined.

  Glancing up, Mongrel saw the office light go out and smiled, a grim smile, the sort of smile which can only decorate the face of a man who’s had two fingers blown off by a grenade. Bending his head against the elemental onslaught, Mongrel pounded across the car park and dived into his parked Volvo.

  Dripping, he slumped in his seat and placed his Nikon II on the mottled dash. He sat motionless, waiting, a grey and static gargoyle behind the steering wheel until the windows steamed up. Cursing, Mongrel rubbed a circular three-fingered patch in the steam and watched a man hurry from the building clutching an umbrella and briefcase, to get into his own groundcar cursing the downpour.

  The car sped off, tail lights flickering briefly as he stopped at the Gatehouse for clearance; then he disappeared in a cloud of evil tox fumes.

  Mongrel turned his own key and the Volvo stuttered, back-fired, then coughed into life. "Baby," gurgled Mongrel, and followed the targeted car down the dark evening streets and away from BlueX in a violent Series Z7 cloud of exhaust poison.

Ben Sherikov drove home in a dazed daze. He wasn’t thinking about the incident with his nose. He wasn’t thinking about anything.

  Rain splattered his windscreen and the rhythmical
whump
of wipers cleared his vision for a few moments with monotonous regularity.
Just like my life,
he thought.
Monotonous.
The motorway was busy, especially around junctions 7 and 8, but the hum of the lirridium engine soothed Ben, soothed his tired, overworked mind, soothed his fully firing morbid imagination...

  It was nothing!

 
NOTHING!
A bit of catarrh, was all.

  A sudden blaring horn brought Ben wide-eyed back to life, and he heaved the wheel right as his car swerved squealing and he fought to regain his own lane; a driver waved his fist and sped off, cutting in front of Ben and disappearing down the busy carriageway.

  "Suck it," muttered Ben, and decided he wasn’t feeling very well. He allowed his speed to drop. Down to 60. To 50. He eased into the ant-like slow lane and switched on the radio and opened the window to let in cool, rain-tickled air.

  The radio droned a miserable drone of clashing guitars and banging drums, but the cold air smelling fresh with rain and what remained of the countryside surrounding the motorway brought Ben back to life... his cold sweat subsided and he managed to relax.

  But it was there, lurking at the back of his mind, a silent intruder stalking his dreams...

  A pint of snot.

  From his own nose.

  What was it? What did it mean? Was he seriously ill? Dying, perhaps?

  "I’ll go see the doctor tomorrow," he said out loud, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. But then he remembered that the following day was a Saturday - so amended his declaration. Monday. Yeah. Monday was good... unless it happened again. Then he’d go to A&E.

 
Yes
, he thought.
Monday. Monday’s a good day. Not too much work on. I can survive a few hours off. BlueX allow you off on a Monday without kicking up too much of a stink. They’re not such bad employers, are they? As all-powerful toxic corporations go.

  The DJ laughed and chuckled Ben home, and he finally pulled onto his drive, killed the lights and switched off the engine. Rain filled his vision. The engine began to
clickity click
. The windows steamed up. But still Ben sat until, with a deep breath, he gathered his briefcase and overcoat and umbrella, and stepping onto his drive, hurrying for the sanctuary of the porch and marriage and normality and tedious Elysium beyond.

Inside, the house was warm. Something baked in the oven and it smelled real good. "Nice day at work?" came Mary’s smiling face from the kitchen, and she kissed his cheek and took his coat.

  "Not bad," he muttered. "Something smells fine!"

  "Eel lasagne. And fresh bread."

  "Excellent! I’ll just go and have a shower." Ben stepped over the purring Persian tom which dominated the hall rug like a king on a throne, and disappeared up the stairs.

  "Justin phoned before, said he wants you to call him back," but Ben was already out of sight and sound and Mary smiled to herself. "He said it’s important!" she shouted up at the disappearing legs. "About your new business ideas in the software market!"

  Still, no answer.

 
Okay
, thought Mary.
Have it your way
. She stooped, patted Ralph the Persian, and returned to the kitchen to check on the lasagne, listening as water began its long dark gurgling descent down the drain
. I’ve never known anybody so obsessed by cleanliness
, she thought.
But then: I’d rather have a clean husband than a dirty mongrel - any day.

Mongrel pulled up in his battered Volvo and drummed fingers on the steering wheel. Or rather, drummed his two remaining fingers and thumb on the steering wheel, the shadow flickering like an amputee spider .

 
What now?
he thought.

 
Was the Information correct?

  It usually was.

  Reaching into his glove compartment, he pulled out a Browning and ejected the mag; he checked the 13 rounds with an expert eye, then slid the magazine home with a
click
.

  Straining through the gloom, he made out the house number and smiled to himself.
Yes
, he thought.
It will wait
.

  He accelerated gently away, the Volvo coughing and stuttering and leaving a dog - caught busy in the act of urinating against the Volvo’s rear tyre - in a cloud of dangerously poisonous fumes.

  The dog was ill for several days, wishing it had never set eyes on the battered Volvo in the first place.

Ben stared at the mirror but did not see his own reflection. Rather, he was seeing through his own eyes and his head was light, his tongue dry, his mouth a crisp tunnel.

  He undressed, and leaving his clothes piled in an untidy heap he stepped under the hot stream of water and revelled in the heat and play of liquid across his lightly tanned shoulders. He allowed water into his mouth and found himself swallowing, gulping the water and he forced himself to stop. Why was he so damned thirsty?

  "Have I been poisoned? Am I diseased?" But only the hiss of the water answered his gentle questions and for a while everything - his life, his marriage, his house - everything, felt
unreal.

  Only when he stepped from the cubicle and into the steam-filled bathroom to towel himself down did some semblance of normality return; his thirst left him and his head cleared. Clarity of perception returned and he felt suddenly good... suddenly fit. He took deep breaths and towelled his hair.
Maybe things weren’t so bad after all? Maybe he was getting better? Maybe things were looking up?

Mary looked down at her sleeping husband. The strain had eased from his face leaving him young, fresh, attractive. But he smelt funny and she wrinkled her nose.

  What was it?

  What
was
that funny smell?

  Moonlight shone through lace curtains as Heavy Matrix machines hummed overhead, green chemicals glittering long toxic trails in the darkness.

  Something smells bad, she thought.

  And Ben muttered restlessly in his sleep.

II 

SATURDAY MORNING

Disorientation. All fours. Running. Crawling. A babe again. Incapable of speech. A need, a bright needle need piercing flesh his mind his soul his brain ...

  Ben’s eyes flickered open. Dawn light eased through net curtains and Ben stretched, yawning - and suddenly halted, mid-yawn. His hand had touched something. On the mattress. Soft. Like a wobbly sponge.

  Wide eyes travelled slowly down the bed, drawn by invisible wires. A hole. In the mattress. Ringed with a crust of orange.

  His heart caught in his throat.

  Ben moved closer.

  The snot had eaten through the springs.

  "Bugger," he muttered, and threw a wary glance towards his wife. What would she say? What would she do? Ben took a deep breath, calming fluttering nerves. Mary was a rational, modern day, switched-on kinda wife. She’d handle it. Probably drive him to the hospital! Certainly help him. Help him overcome this terrible affliction...

"Snot?" she screamed, her face a bright demon of sweat and contorting flesh. "What do you fucking mean its fucking snot?" Ben ducked the heavy book which bounced from the wall leaving a dent in
Mild Oyster
. He scampered into the living room, naked, his penis swinging limp and lifeless, a pale worm in the early morning bacon smog. Mary followed him, a hunter, a predator, fired with primal rage at the disgust and set to eat her Mate.

  There was a crash, and Ben sprinted around the coffee table with Mary in close pursuit, then back out into the hall with a knife embedding in the wood behind him. It quivered, the plasti-handle humming softly.

  Ben tripped and sprawled.

  Ralph, the Persian cat, stared up in mild bemusement.

  "How can snot
possibly
eat through a mattress?" hissed Mary, her face more calm now, her breasts rising and falling as she leant against the doorframe.

  Thank God she hasn’t got the stamina, thought Ben.

  Or I’d be a dead Ben!

  He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, pleading. Her face softened – and – yes, she would have melted into his arms if the Unthinkable hadn’t happened –

  A sudden massive wave of nausea swamped him, more violent than before, it surged through Ben’s body and he convulsed, feeling a huge bulbous sneeze welling within him like a wave crashing against a dam, a storm rushing towards the cliffs, a tsunami rising to engulf an archipelago –

  Snot spewed from his nostrils, thick and warm and orange, it ejected, a glistening shroud, to envelop a suddenly mewling, thrashing, yowling Ralph the Persian mog in a hot bright sticky embrace...

  Mary screamed, hands to face, standard hysteria.

  Ben bucked and convulsed on his hands and knees, spewing and gurging, until the last droplets of snot fell across the now bubbling cat which hissed and writhed weakly under orange goo before sighing, and becoming one, and sinking and merging with the melted carpet and floor.

  "Ralph!" screamed Mary, "Oh Ralph! ". A knife was in her fist.

  Ben was weak, and his head came up, face drawn and grey, eyes resigned.

  Death was here.

  In the heart of his own sweet dear wife.

  "I’m sorry," he tried to say, but his tongue was a stick fused to his teeth. Mary loomed with knife bright in shaking hands, and then she was gone, the door clattering wide open, bright light falling on Ben as he lay, shivering, naked and snot-splashed on the floor.

  Long minutes passed.

  "I – need – a – doctor," he managed, and his foot lashed out, his ankle banging weakly against the door which swung shut with a tiny
click
.

  Ben lay on his back, eyes staring at the mound of tangled fur. Poor Ralph. He’d been a good tom. A fine tom! A little too pampered but - hell, he deserved a better fate than bubbling away in a mound of hot human snot and snot-melted concrete.

  An hour passed...

  Two.

  Gathering his strength, Ben got to his knees, then his feet. He was swaying, head light, filled with dark anger and music and random snatches of conversation ...

  He staggered into the kitchen, grabbed the only bottle which was to hand. Whisky. He drank the bottle in one long, burning, satisfying gulp... 

  And spent the rest of the morning giggling on the kitchen floor.

Mary sat in a broad wide white bright room, hands clasped in her lap, still shaking. The police had found her story of great interest. And via a succession of comm calls, so had the military.

  "Tell me again," said the huge man, placing his gun on the white desk with a barely audible clack, "about the snot."

  "But who...
who
are you?" managed Mary.

  The police man grinned, scratching his stubble with his two remaining fingers.

  "They call me Mongrel. ’Cause I’m a son of a bitch," he said.

The afternoon found Ben Sherikov seated within the confines of his living room. He’d managed to find a pair of shorts with which he fought a violent battle before struggling into their snug genital hug. He sat in his armchair, a 2 litre bottle of BlueX Heroin Tonic beside his elbow from which he took the occasional swig.

  Fact.

  Snot kept pouring from his nose.

  Fact.

  His wife had run away.

  Fact.

  Because he’d snotted over the tom cat and killed it.

  Fact.

  He needed a doctor.

  A doctor...

  Ben eyed the comm warily, like a cat eyes a hedgehog; with a desperate primal need to kill, but aware all-too-painfully of the spikes.

  One call. Emergency. One call.

  He surged to his feet and padded into the hall. He stepped gingerly over Ralph’s remains and picked up the comm. He stared at it for long minutes before reaching out with tentative fingers and punching the numbers to connect.

  "Hello?"

  "Doctor Ivers?"

  "Good afternoon. Before we continue, have you got your Customer Charge Number?"