Vivisepulture (21 page)

  "Yes," said Ben. "It’s bleurghh."

  "Pardon?"

  There was a click, and Doctor Ivers was left staring at the blank comm in confusion.

  Ben had a look on his face, but it was not confusion. It was far from confusion. It lingered in the realms of terror and pelted apples at the windows of disgust.

  He had snotted over the comm, which, in the tradition of things which got covered in heavily acidic orange snot, bubbled away into a gooey mess and dripped onto the carpet leaving Ben with only a half-comm in his twitching fingers. He shuffled away, so as not to get it on his toes.

  "Is my own body rebelling against me?" he screamed at the melted puddle.

  I’ve got to get out of here
, he thought.

  I’m going crazy!

  He staggered to the door and reached for the handle. Bright light shone through the glass. It touched his skin, leaving him feeling drained and suddenly weaker than weak.

  He turned the handle.

  Opened the door -

  Light flooded the hall and Ben gagged, nausea tearing through him, violent bursts of colour swamping his mind as he fell to his knees and felt his whole body shrivelling, drying up, his skin wrinkling and blistering and tearing great gaping black putrid wounds in his blackened flesh and he gasped, eyes watering as he pleaded with God and pleaded with the Devil to help him save him find him save him from this terrible all-consuming pain...

  The door drifted, and clicked shut.

  Slowly, gradually, over millennia, the pain subsided.

  Gasping, Ben pushed himself to his knees and examined his skin. Pure white. But his thirst, his terrible thirst... he staggered back to the living room, treading on poor Ralph’s sloppy cat corpse as he zig-zagged an erratic route to the bright calling of BlueX Heroin Tonic. In a gulp it was gone, and Ben continued to the kitchen where he stood, his spine twisted, his mouth under the cold water tap for long, long minutes until he thought he would burst.

  Only then did he sink to the floor, burping and happy, feeling light-headed but the thirst had gone, finally, it was gone!

  And this was
good.

  I cannot leave, he realised.

  I cannot leave my own damn house!

  It has become a prison cell.

  It has become a hole in the ground.

  A sanctuary.

  And...

  my own private Hell.

III

SATURDAY EVENING

There was a knock at the door. A blob moved outside and Ben shouted, "Let yourself in," from the safety of a gloom-filled interior.

  Justin Sullivan opened the door and peered around the portal. "Ben? Ben mate, it’s me, Jus. I’ve brought you that guitar."

  "Come on in."

  Jus frowned. Ben sounded strange.

  Different.

  Jus stepped in, an electric kooler-matrix guitar in one hand, a small amp in the other. He kicked shut the door and trotted into the living room which was shrouded in almost complete darkness.

  "What you doing in the dark, Ben? Turned into a vamp, eh?" He laughed. Ben did not.

  "Nice to see you."

  Ben slid past Justin, who dumped the guitar and amp on the carpet and followed Ben to the twilight kitchen; the blinds had been drawn and the only eerie light came from the green chemicals of the lightning hob.

  "What you doing?"

  "Cooking," said Ben.

  "Yum," said Jus. "Can I skag some? I am starving, mate."

  "If you like," said Ben, stirring something in a pan.

  "What is it?" Jus peered forward, but could only see what looked like thick soup.

  Ben lifted a spoon. There was a dull glint of orange. He fed the thick contents into his mouth where it spooled between his teeth, thick strands of gelatinous goo, black and orange, and smelling real bad.

  "What the hell is that?"

  "Snot," said Ben, dropping the spoon.

  "
What?
"

  "Ashes to ashes. Snot to snot. Ha ha."

  "
You what?
" Justin took a step back, suddenly wary of Ben’s proximity, suddenly fearful of the gloom and the atmosphere and the smell, the bad smell, and this
person
whom he had thought was his friend…

  "Like this," said Ben, head dropping forward, face contorting into impossible shapes; and then he was coughing, wheezing, coughing again and Jus looked on in horror as a thick pool of orange spewed from his friend’s face, thick and orange it flowed free and down and flowed across the kitchen floor and ate through his shoes.

  "Ahh!" screamed Justin, hopping back and kicking off his snot-covered shoes. "It’s burning, ahhhh, it’s fucking burning!"

  "Yes," nodded Ben. "It does that."

  Justin ran across the living room and up the stairs; only when cold water jetted across his feet did he allow tears of relief to fall free. The pain was incredible and Justin stooped to watch blisters and thick orange bubbles rise across his skin.

  With a grim face he descended the stairs.

  "I’m sorry," said Ben, appearing in the gloom. "I didn’t mean to do that."

  Justin smashed a right straight into Ben’s face, hammering his friend back against the wall where he slid to the ground bearing a curious smile as blood dribbled from a split lip.

  Without another word Justin left, limping down the drive as the London light began to fail and darkness crept spider-like across tall, gaunt buildings.

  Behind him, Ben cradled his head and wept.

IV

SUNDAY: 2:30 AM

Andy, Jake, Sonia and Sharon were drunk. They staggered up the pavement. Sometimes they staggered up the road. They sang. They chuckled. They roared. Onwards they marched, until Jake suddenly halted and, swaying with the look of eagles, said, "Look at little dog?"

  "Eh?"

  "Eh?"

  They peered into the gloom - but it was gone, scampering under a bush and away towards the SynthoPark and the trees and grass beyond.

  "A dog?"

  "‘Ello?"

  "Hotel?"

  There was a roaring of laughter, a great guffawing which reverberated from cold wet tarmac and on they continued until Sharon stopped.

  "What’s this?"

  "What?"

  "Something - ugh - it’s stuck to my boot!"

  They crouched around on the floor, their chuckles forgotten as Sharon’s 

feet began to burn and her throat began to screech ...

Heavy tyres churned mud. Matrix engines screamed, gears clashed and the five Truks crunched to a halt. Men, many men, disgorged from the silent blank black tombs and spread out with SMKKs ready.

  Mongrel signalled and soldiers hit the earth:

  Waiting.

  Flicking off the safety on his Browning, Mongrel grinned and holding the gun in his good hand gave a high, clear whistle. Signalling the advance.

He was free.

  He leapt, twisting through the air to land on all fours, perfection, twirling, dancing. The grass was cool under his claws. The breeze cool against his hot, fevered skin. His eyes were bright - incredibly bright - and his tongue lolled 

and he giggled.

  Ben giggled.

  He scampered across the park, leaping again, singing in a high soft voice, a croon of perfection, soft notes, gentle notes.

  Occasionally he would stop and snot on the grass, marking his territory, watching the plasti strands bubble. Then he would leap and dance once more into the darkness.

  They would come for him.

  He giggled.

  He knew they would come for him.

  How could they let one
so perfect
live?

  How could they let one
so perfect
be free?

  They would come with heavy boots and heavy guns and screaming voices but he was ready, he, Ben Sherikov, had made his peace. With God? With Satan? He knew not. But his inner demons were laid to rest...

  Suddenly, the night exploded.

  Brilliant white light shot out from many sources, pinning Ben to the grass like a butterfly to a board by its shredded, pulped wings; he held up his arms to ward off the light which paralysed him as harsh crackles rang around the park and SMKKs fired warning screams into the air and Ben cowered, helpless but giggling and snotting, in the middle of the park.

  "Cage him," said The Mongrel, watching as heavy steel nets were brought into position. Then he turned, and as a snarling spitting giggling Ben Sherikov was trussed up in thick wire he placed a hand on Mary’s arm in a moment of rare tenderness.

  "You did the right thing," he said.

  "Did I?"

  "Yes." The Mongrel’s eyes were bright with conviction. "He is dangerous."

  "And you’re not?" She encompassed the whole gathering with her scathing stare. "With your guns and bombs and War?"

  The Mongrel shrugged, and watched as Mary ran off into the darkness, sobbing. One part of him wanted to go after her, to comfort her. But the stronger part, the military slice, returned to the task in hand and he helped load Ben Sherikov into the Truk and he happily put in the boot and the fist and the stomp, and the engine roared and the wheels churned mud and they were gone and away ...

V

TUESDAY EVENING

A cold TV.

  White light, split by colours as naked troopers danced a jingle and hands clapped and laughers laughed and politicians spewed verbal skag from lips tainted with poison.

  Adverts.

  Crisps.

  Sex.

  Guns ...

  And a new TV series... Exploration... The UNKNOWN...

  Mary Sherikov sat in the damp bare apt, her hands cold in her lap, her mind blank, her eyes cold and shadowed and fevered. She waited. She waited with simian patience.

  "And now," gleamed the sparkling whiter-than-white teeth of the host, Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman, as he capered across a stage which had been erected for the occasion, "here we have ..." pause for applause "the one and ONLY BEN SHERIKOV WOOOOOOOOOH!"

  Screams.

  Women fainting.

  Jolly Joker jumping and cavorting in his Jolly Jokeman Way.

  There was a soft hiss as Mary let out her contained breath. She could feel her heart beating in her breast. Loud. Too loud.

  Ben was led across the stage in manacles. He was subdued and naked, and his body bore the brunt of medical experimentation.

  "Can we explain the SNOT?" cackled Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman. There was a hush from the audience and the lights dimmed. Jokeman’s teeth sparkled like laser-rimed diamonds.

  "Can we explain the MADNESS?"

  A spotlight flared, illuminating the bright green and red costume of The Jokeman, and into the circle stumbled Ben Sherikov, blind, dumb, disease-ridden, poxed, and
full
of snot.

  The TV died to a point of white and disappeared.

  They’ve turned him into a freak, Mary thought. I can watch no more.

  She wandered wearily into the kitchen and poured herself a drink. Whisky. She downed it, and found that her hands were shaking. With a rattle she dropped the glass into the sink and suddenly a strange sensation came over her. She felt light-headed. Drunk. Her knees were weak, and a strange gushing seemed to scream through her face, through her nose. And she stared down at a wide bright pool of purple snot which melted the washing bowl and ate through the stainless steel sink.

  There came a
looong
pause.

  "Oh no," she whispered.

West London. A high apt. Away from the dregs of dirty festering human scum below.

  Justin Sullivan sat on his fancy carved wooden toilet seat, his bubbled, weeping feet in a bowl of salt water, his head in his hands.

  "Ow," he said.

  "Ow. Ow!"

  The orange snot blisters had popped, seeping orange pus to mingle with strong brine, and Jus knew he had to go to the hospital. The wounds were serious. Much, much more serious than he had at first realised.

  Why hadn’t he gone earlier?

  Why o why o why?

  "Shit o shit o shit," he said.

  Reaching for the tube of Savlon, he emptied the tube into his palm and smeared the soothing white over his tortured hooves. For a second - a cool soothing cool calm pure white second - the pain went. Justin sighed.

  But then it returned, an angry flare, a needle stab of boiling intensity which made him weep into his hands and chew his lip and tug at his hair.

  I curse you, Sherikov, he thought, again picturing the TV scenes as Ben was dragged through the screaming crowds who hurled debris at his prone, prancing form. He was a freak. A circus demon, tainted, taunted, chained by his throat and led by the prancing jeering Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman.

  "I curse you!"

  Suddenly, he felt a pain in his chest and he could not breathe. He had never felt so bad, and he tried to speak, tried to suck in precious air - but could not. His hands went to his throat. Probing. Panic welled in his breast. He surged to his feet, his pained feet forgotten, the red-hot searing pain forgotten as he stuffed his fingers down his throat, trying to breathe, trying to swallow, trying to suck and blow and trying merely to stay alive...

  Tracheotomy, he thought.

  The Army. Training. Stab a ball-point pen through your throat -

  Breathe -

  He stumbled from the bathroom, fell to his knees with bright lights glittering in his mind. He was losing it. Losing it fast ...

  Dying...

  And then he coughed.

  A heavy, singular cough.

  As the pain cleared, Jus looked down at the solid yellow ball of phlegm, like a tennis ball of solid quivering, and even now making the carpet sizzle as it sat proud and squalid, like a broad toad on a water-lilly.

During the following week, across London peps and dregs alike began to snot and cough and snot their way into a miserable existence they could never have dreamt possible. Faster than the plague, it spread. More contagious than the common cold. From London to the Home Counties. From the Home Counties to Manchester. From Manchester to Glasgow... from London to Paris to Berlin to Florence to New York to Beijing…