Ace of Spades Chronicles : Book One (9 page)

"Take your time," Yates said.

Her eyes seemed to brighten for a moment. She smiled and twirled the set of keys around her forefinger, then turned and opened the door. She ran into the house like an excited child returning from a stimulating school trip, calling out a name that they could not quite hear. Her voice could be heard as a soft note, travelling from room to room, and then there was silence.

Xander's attention stirred back to the car park infected. They had eliminated around twenty five between the three of them since leaving the main road, including those that were levelled by the spinning barricade and whipping barbed wire; but there were still many more, spilling in from the surrounding roadways and pavement. Some were naked or semi clothed; some charred or missing limbs. Most were in an advanced state of decay. He scanned the palisade fencing. It had been built well, designed to keep opportunists and vandals out. But he doubted very much that when it was erected, the tradesman commissioned to complete the task had considered repelling a vehement horde of infected. He turned to Yates. "Do you think this is going to hold?"

Yates looked at Xander, then the length and height of the fence, then the wall of walking corpses moving with an almost hive mentality towards them.

"Let's not find out." He said, taking a step back. They gathered the Bergen and all the weapons and climbed the steps quickly, just as the girl was heading back down the long, galley style kitchen beyond the white door. "Is your friend ok?" Yates asked, concerned that the girl looked quite troubled.

She shook her head, shielding her eyes from the rising sun; fresh tear tracks lined her slightly flushed, olive cheeks. "He's not here," she sniffled. She was holding a 400 page Pukka Pad, which she held up for them to see. She flicked through the pages, displaying page after page of handwritten notes. "He left this for me." On the first page, written in bright red, felt tip pen, were the words…

'For Rinko.'

Ace of Spades

PART TWO

FOR RINKO

'Hello...

I'm your mind giving you

someone to talk to...'

Evanescence... Hello

‘SOME TIME AGO…’

I heard the first wave of sirens at around 3am and had slovenly fallen asleep on the sofa with Moya, my border collie, thinking nothing more about them. It’s an all too familiar sound in a city of this size, so why pay them any more attention than they deserve; that was my reasoning. If only I knew then what I know now. Sunshine cut through the net curtains and danced a foxtrot in my brain with the muddled waves of a spicy rum hangover, at around 8am. I reached for the TV remote and flicked on the set as I rolled my first cigarette of the day. It was going to be gorgeous. I thought about taking Moya for a long walk down by the river; maybe find a quiet pub and get drunk. No such luck.

According to the local breakfast news, a headless body had been found in the grounds of the mental hospital just down the road. The gruesome find had been discovered by the grounds staff, and a Police spokesman at the scene confirmed that the death was not being treated as suspicious. He said investigations at the hospital were under way and officers had started inquiries to establish the circumstances around the death, but early indications were that the deceased was a homeless man who had died in the undergrowth several weeks ago, and it was thought that animals had removed the head after gnawing through his neck. They had probably eaten through the soft tissue, popped the skull from the spine, and then dragged it away into the brambles that the grounds staff had been clearing all that week. An exterior shot of the hospital revealed what I thought at the time to be an excessive Police presence, and as the reporter handed back to the studio, my marinated mind was already drifting. I needed my morning coffee hit and went downstairs to the kitchen, with Moya following eagerly at my ankles.

We were out of sugar and Moya was in need of her morning walk. We were also out of dog food, and a quick inspection of the cupboards told me we were pretty much out of everything else. I had a few tins of soup, a jar of marmite, a dozen or so cans of Special Brew in the fridge; but that was it. I made a shopping list, grabbed my wallet and put Moya's collar and lead on. We always took our morning amble through what was laughingly called a nature reserve by the local council; but the green open space was large enough to allow dogs off the lead, and was only five minutes from home. It backed onto the grounds of the mental hospital mentioned in the morning news and overlooked the supermarket, so it was a convenient detour whenever we needed some supplies; and a good excuse to stretch Moya’s legs and smoke a crafty one.

I let Moya off the lead as soon as we were through the gate. I walked passed the dew pond, she trotting happily by my side, and headed towards the path that snaked in a looping fashion behind the hospital’s security fence, as we did every morning. An attractive family of five played with their pet greyhound. I waved good morning and they waved back. The mother and father tossed a Frisbee between themselves and their three perfect children. I used to see them every other morning, but I haven’t seen them since…

Moya wanted to join in, but I called her back with a series of clicks that I made with my tongue. I would use lots of positive reinforcement; not only did it bring out the finest qualities in what was essentially a domesticated wolf, it raised my own vibration to a level of self satisfaction, knowing that her good behaviour was a combination of her breeding and my training. That was the last time we were able to do this.

What was the date?

Never mind...

The hospital is huge. A complex of two and three storey buildings, fabricated in red brick with white borders, it was not unpleasant to look at. On first glance, it actually looked more like a college campus. There was a central glass atrium and every access road had its own name and road markings. The surroundings were landscaped with birch and spruce, larch and Scots pine, and the entire block of about thirty acres was girdled by a strong, seven foot high security fence topped with long, wiry spikes. It was signposted as a community health centre and dealt with addiction, psychiatric intensive care and violent offenders with mental health issues, and it was well known that they used electro-convulsive therapies and often took in dangerous convicts. They were delivered to the doctors in the back of a Police van, usually with a medium sized support escort.

As the grounds stood opposite the supermarket, very often, the less aggressive
'residents'
were allowed to visit the store unaccompanied to buy treats and cigarettes. Most were just junkie kids; polite and harmless, they walked with eyes glued to the ground and their ears permanently plugged into their mp3's listening to music or updating their Facebook status via their expensive smart phones. But some were the type of people you cross the road to avoid. Unpleasant, crazy eyed types; with far too many prison tattoos and an unpredictable nature.              

We made our way around the loop. Moya stopped several times and sniffed the air, and I wondered whether she could detect the aroma of decay that must have lingered around the spot where the decapitated homeless man had been found and disturbed by the grounds staff. I could see a couple of Police officers in yellow high visibility vests, prodding around in the shoulder high bramble, and I could hear the faint whine of an internal alarm going off in the facility. Through the imposing boundary fence, I saw a patient running between the wards and units. He or she was soon followed by six or seven of the medical staff. I heard a scream of remonstration and then the remnants of its echo. I saw another yellow jacketed figure, hunched over by a large rosehip bush on the hospital side. He looked like he was coughing, or perhaps gagging. I was far enough away for him not to notice me, but when Moya growled, I decided not to hang about. I put her lead back on and we headed for the supermarket.

I could hear lots of sirens on the main road as we exited the reserve. The facility alarm was much louder now too, and stayed with us as we walked the well trodden path around the hospital perimeter. You can't really see the main road because of the trees and the relative height difference between path and highway; but you know it's there. Even on a quiet day, the noise from the traffic interrupts a peaceful walk. I could see flashing blue lights through the hawthorn branches and hanging silver birch limbs, and realised that the traffic going into the supermarket car park was backing up considerably. Passing the underpass that led to a foot bridge, and then into a fairly new housing estate and on towards the local primary school, I noticed a brightly coloured, hand drawn poster advertising the school’s summer fair. There would be much fun to be had, with face painting, apple bobbing, clowns and games all day long. 9am - 5.30pm. Dogs were welcome; I remember looking down at Moya and asked her whether she wanted to go. She just licked her nose and pulled me forward.

When we rounded the corner, I saw that Police had blocked vehicle access to the hospital, and this was having a knock on effect which was playing havoc with the morning shoppers. The petrol station affiliated to the store was filled to capacity, and the traffic attempting to exit here was getting caught in the entrance bottle neck. We passed a crocodile of children accompanied by fussing parents, on their way to said summer fair. They were happy and smiling in the warm morning breeze. They all carried bags of shopping laden with crisps and fizzy drinks, and their excited laughs brought back memories of my own, free-spirited youth.

Police vans lined the entrance road to the hospital but there were only a handful of officers present. There were several people swarming around the entrance but the officers seemed to be keeping their distance. I saw one person, a doctor I think, female; staggering through the crowd, heading towards the supermarket. She wore hospital whites and moved as though she were intoxicated or had recently suffering a knock to the head. I secured Moya to a metal rail by the front door and went into the supermarket, passing the creepy children's ride called ’THE STORY BUS’ as it giggled its disturbing call to insert money, and headed for the tobacco counter. I bought 50g of rolling tobacco and turned just in time to see the female doctor enter. She was behaving deranged and I thought it peculiar as she staggered behind the check outs and barged her way through the people who had paid, bagged up and were trying to exit. I noticed that she was missing a shoe and her left sleeve was dotted with what looked like blood; she coughed, sending spittle through the air, and I heard someone shout 'hey, what's your problem?' as they exited the store to pack their car.

The store security guard looked up from his monitors but didn't move. Another man dropped a large bag of barbeque charcoal as the doctor fell into him. The bag split in two and black briquettes scattered across the freshly polished floor. It was very busy, even though it was barely 9.15am, and there were still people streaming in from the car park. Families getting ready for a splendid day out; Single mothers with uncontrollable kids. Pot-bellied men with their obnoxiously loud, pot-bellied wives.             

Watching the female doctor as she moved deeper into the store stood an overachieving middle manager attempting to wow a very self important senior manager with her point-of-sale skills. They slowly started to follow the doctor, passing an underpaid shelf-stacker who was busy replenishing stock; he was getting in everyone’s way and blocked the aisle with cages overflowing with goods.

Suddenly, the female doctor pitched head first into a display of batteries near one of the check outs, sending dozens of little trip and skid hazards all over the place. She completely lost control of her forward momentum and fell face first into the rack, then tumbled to the floor, landing on her shoulder. A check out supervisor wearing a radio head-set leant over to help her up. She appeared to be only mildly stunned, and as he took her elbow and helped her to her feet, she grabbed his arm and bit into his palm as if it were a salad baguette. He yelped like a new born puppy and the female doctor pushed him vigorously aside. I waited for her to move away before slipping into the dog food aisle. I could still see her, but by now there were at least fifteen people between us. The check out supervisor held his hand to his mouth. She had drawn blood, and it pooled like crimson syrup onto the cuff of his pressed uniform.

I picked up some dry food for Moya and zipped across to the bread. I got two loaves for the price of one and continued to the rear of the store and cut right towards the fresh meats where I got some sausages, then right again and down the tinned food and pasta aisle. I got some baked beans, 2kg of pasta shells, a large bag of sugar, and decided to get another bottle of spicy rum to ease my hangover, so weaved my way through the multitude of shoppers to the booze aisle. A few yards ahead and just around the corner in aisle thirteen, behind the savoury onion rings and hulahoops, there was a massive crash. The female doctor was grabbing bottles of alcoholic spirit and knocking the contents back as if it were lemonade. A junior assistant was arguing with her and trying to take a bottle of Bombay Sapphire from her hand, but the doctor was having none of it. She threw the assistant against the shelves; they fell from their moorings, spilling bottles to the floor. There was glass everywhere. The security guard and the junior manager I had seen previously arrived and flanked her; trying to anticipate which shelf of bottles she would demolish next. The guard grabbed the doctor by the shoulder and spun her around to face him. To his own dismay and to everyone continuing to shop and browse around them, she swung her head forward as if to head butt him, then clamped her teeth around the soft flesh of his nose and bit it off. The gathered crowd of shoppers recoiled as a quick jet of blood splattered their clothing, cheeks and the junior manager’s face. The guard pushed the doctor away and grabbed his own face. He whirled and screamed, spraying yet more blood onto the shoppers closest to him, then fell to his knees. The shoppers scattered. I stood open mouthed and watched as the female doctor calmly spat out the guard’s nose as if she were spitting out a piece of lint. There was a moment when time stood completely still...

Then all hell broke loose.

The female doctor started to shake, as if she were having some kind of grand-mal. She pulled at her collar, exposing her neck line. Veins popped from her throat. She tore at her skin, shedding cloudy liquid and blood in a fine spray. She pulled at her mouth and gasped for air. "
Please help me
," she cried; her voice strangulated with fear. The junior manager leaned forward and with explosive force, the female doctor vomited into her face then turned into a human wrecking ball. She grabbed her head then began to thrash wildly, fists outstretched. She fired bottle after bottle from the shelves. They flew like missiles, smashing on impact with the floor. Her hands were severely gashed and jagged lacerations exposed her radial arteries. Glass and blood, mixed with flying vomit, showered the onlookers. Many dropped their shopping and ran in disgust and panic. I saw one woman slip and fall hard. She scrambled to her feet and slid through the blood in a desperate need to distance herself from the unfolding horror. Then the female doctor collapsed into a puddle of her own blood and puke, twitching like a fish on a line.

I; like many others, held my breath; and not just because of the smell. I think I was in shock for a few minutes; in fact, I’m sure of it. I remember being very aware of my breathing, which was thick and slow, the way you feel after walking up a protracted hill. And my heart was pounding, punching my rib cage with an anxious rhythm. I could feel my pulse, pumping in my ear like a distant, dull bell, and I distinctly remember a cold shiver stroking my arms and the back of my neck.

If I had wanted to exit quickly, I couldn't. Splattered onlookers blocked both ends of the aisle, and there was a huddle of people, standing in the growing mere of red, catatonic and shaking; each had signs of blood or puke on them. I was caught between these and the rear of the aisle. Some of those who had been closest were wiping sick and blood from their faces. A small boy was spitting out a mouthful of vomit and gagging. A female member of staff began to scream when she realised that her uniform was now a Rorschach of gore. A young couple skidded on the blood soaked floor as they dragged each other away. The junior manager grabbed handfuls of vomit from her hair and shoulders and shook it off her hands, sending yet more vile projectiles in the direction of the onlookers. She gagged and gipped, then
she
threw up. The smell was overpowering. Rancid stomach juices mixed with bile and booze. Every muscle in my body told me to move, to drop my groceries, to get Moya and get the hell away; but I was transfixed. The overriding aroma rising from the floor was making me retch. I tried to push through the crowd, but trolleys blocked my route and a man dressed in a cheap suit and smelling of body odour was pushing against me. In a very reassuring way he calmly announced that he had first aid training, as he moved down the aisle; to me, he looked like he was about to diffuse a bomb. The junior manager waved him over, clearly recovering from her own vomit drenching. The man in the cheap suit checked the security guard, who was out cold and lying in the foetal position amid the broken bottles and peanut butter coloured vomit, which now had rivulets of congealing blood running through it. I heard him say, "
He has a pulse
." There was a collective, optimistic sigh, and I took this as my cue to leave.