The Screaming (Book 1): Dead City

THE SCREAMING: dead city

by

Matthew Warwick

Chapter One

“Twenty grand, for a wedding? I don’t care how beautiful she is, or how often she polishes it, no woman is worth all this overtime you’re stacking up.”

              The radio beeped as he released the button. He stood looking up at the crane. It’s large metal arm swinging over his head with another container. He pulled at his high visibility vest and grabbed his hard hat, ducking his head as the container groaned over the dock side.

“Careful, dick head.” He screamed into the radio, while sticking his finger up at the chubby docker, who was laughing away, high up in the crane cab.

“Sorry Jez” he laughed, spraying the contents of an egg and cress sandwich over the cab window.

“Look at me, I’ll never do better than her, so sacrifices have to be made.”

“You’re a mug Jez, you know that right?”

              The crane stood tall overlooking the dock like a proud king over his subjects. The huge dark cargo ship dwarfed the dockside, shadowing the hundreds of unloaded shipping containers like Lego bricks blanketed by the immense hull. She was called the African Princess and was at least thirty years old. She had clearly been around the world a few times and was showing signs of her epic travels, as were the crew. Made up of South and West Africans, the crew looked as weathered as the ship. The African crews were usually such a chatty friendly bunch. They’d hop off the ship with packets of fake cigarettes for a fiver and then head off into the city for a shop of designer goods to take home and sell. But Jez couldn’t help noticing how miserable and reluctant to come ashore the crew of the Princess were.

“Not even a “Jambo” from this bunch”

“Right, stop messing around Chris, we need to get this tub unloaded, it’s already late.” Jez yelled into the radio, as he snapped out of his pondering.

              A horn sounded from across the estuary. A sheet of mist was hovering over the water like a duvet being pulled up over the city. The last few moments of the warm days summer sun bounced off the mirror of mist before dropping below the horizon. Jez could hear crewmen up on the Princess shouting at each other on the deck of the ship. Shadows skipped around in a panicked circus of activity. He arched his head to see the dancing silhouettes of the crew darting about. The gritty cough of a diesel engine broke up the shouting as a forklift hurtled by.

“Sssshhhh.” Tapered away from the bow and all fell quiet on board.

“What was that all about Chris? Can you see?”

“Looks like Nelson wants to get back home for dinner.” He scoffed, with a mouth full of sandwich.

“Good riddance. I’m going to go and count the containers, I make it three to go.”

“Okay. I’ll have my lunch.” Chris switched the crane into neutral, raised his feet up onto the dashboard and grabbed a Mars Bar from his lunch box.

              Jez paced along between the towers of containers, clipboard in his left hand and pointing his chewed pen at each row as he mumbled away to himself. At the end of each row he stopped and wrote the total on the clipboard. A screech of metal caused him to momentarily glimpse up at the cargo trains pulling into the dock to collect the containers. To his left and up a wide road, was a gatehouse with a line of trucks waiting to get in and collect their wares. A skinny security guard stood in front of them in the road waving a torch. His smug grin betrayed him and showed his obvious enjoyment of the power he had over the truck drivers, as he halted their entry.

“Little Hitler.” Jez mumbled.

“Three left to go Chris.”

“Roger that Ghost Rider.”

Jez chuckled, as he got the Top Gun reference.

Suddenly, a large thud reverberated along the skin of a container to Jez left. He swung his head around and stumbled back against the container to his right, dropping the clipboard.

“Get a grip Jez.” He said to himself, dismissing it as the containers settling on each other.

“Nice trip?” Chris laughed, as he wiped away the condensation on the cab window to get a better look at his friend’s misfortune. 

Jez walked over to the container and tapped it with his pen, before picking up the clipboard and turning to walk away. He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide open, as he heard another sound coming from the container.

“What’s up? Drinking on the job again?”

“Fuck Off Chris. I heard a cough in one of the containers.”

“More bloody asylum seekers?”

              Jez edged to the side of the container, put the clip board under his arm and swapped his radio to his right hand. He leaned against the container and put his ear up against the side. The metal felt cold against the side of his face and it took several seconds for his hearing to tune in. Nothing at first, but then whispers and talking, no, crying. Jez moved away from the container, he pushed off of the wall and raised his radio.

“Control, we’ve got a live one. Number one, two, two, eight. Multiple occupants.”

              Jez walked to the front of the container and perched himself on the edge of a parked forklift truck. He unzipped the cargo pocket on his trousers and pulled out a pack of tobacco, and rolled

a cigarette. He leaned back, not taking his eyes off the door of the container, and lit up the cigarette.

“Looks like we’re going to be here a while.”

              A couple of hours passed and the night had truly set in. A thin vale of mist filled the space between the containers. Up at the gatehouse, the trucks were trying to manoeuvre out of the way of the approaching police cars and immigration truck that were being lead onto the dock by the Dock Master. A blend of blue and orange lights filtered through the low dusty ceiling of mist as the convoy cut its way through the gatehouse and onto the dock. Little Hitler stood tall with his hands behind his back, sticking his chest out like he had engineered the whole thing. Jez looked at him and shook his head in disbelief.

“Ha! The idiot thinks he’s General Patton.” Chris giggled over the radio from his birds nest.

              The convoy of emergency vehicles moved slowly through the gate and down onto the dock. Jez stood up and walked over to the Dock Masters battered old yellow Landrover as it pulled up next to the crane. The police cars and immigration truck looked spotless in comparison as they pulled up behind. Condensation had formed on the side window of the Landrover and Jez struggled to see inside. The driver door opened and out stepped Pete, the Dock Manager. Pete was a miserable shit. He was fine until his wife left him for a dentist. Now he spent all his time at work, just for the company and to complain of toothache on a daily basis.

“Hello, Pete, How’s the tooth?” said Jez to a scowling Pete, who ignored the jibe.

“Jez, this is Inspector Parker.”

              A tall, thin police inspector looked Jez up and down from under his peaked cap and then looked across at the containers as if he already knew which one of the hundreds of containers in front of him contained the people. About ten other police officers got out of three cars behind the inspectors car. Behind those was an ambulance with two paramedics leaning up against it. The immigration truck had parked just inside the gate house and the two immigration officers were walking down the dock to join the group now forming at the front of the containers.

“Passports at the ready.” Chris’ voice bellowed over the radio.

              Jez reached for the radio on his belt and turned the volume down. He didn’t look up at the gathering uniforms, embarrassed by Chris’ broadcast, he side stepped to the right and pointed to the doors of container 1228.

“That’s the one.”

              It was a standard large shipping container, with corrugated walls. It was dirty, damp and cold, and was probably originally green or blue but well weathered by years of travelling the globe on the front of ships like the Princess. It had two large heavy metal doors, each with a complex system of locks, secured with large industrial padlocks the size of a brick. Inspector Parker walked up to the container and stood in front of it, next to Jez. He leant towards the doors and cleared his throat.

“Hello.” He squealed, before embarrassingly clearing his throat and trying again.

“Hello. This is the police. You’re at the London Container Terminal. You’re safe, and we will see to your needs. Stay calm whilst we get you out. There will be some cutting.”

Inspector Parker and Jez looked at each other and both leaned in to the doors with their ears pressed against the metal.

“Can you hear anything?” said Parker.

“Coughing, and…”

              Inspector Parker stepped back, his eyes wide. Then quickly moved back against the doors and pressed his other ear against them.

“Yes, Yes, Gargling, They’re suffocating.”

              Suddenly a high pitched scream echoed from inside the container. The walls vibrated and groaned as the piercing wail swarmed around the inside of the metal cage. Parker and Jez leapt back, and Parker stumbled into a puddle. A nearby police officer leant down to help him up and he embarrassingly shrugged him off, stood up and dusted his jacket down.

“That sounds like a child.” said Pete.

“That was more than one child, and they sound like they’re in pain.” Jez said as he edged cautiously back towards the door.

“Get those doors open NOW constable. These people are in trouble.” Parker barked at the unsuspecting officers to his left.

              Two officers disappeared around the back of one of the police vans, and returned moments later carrying a large acetylene blow torch, a pair of thick leather gloves and some goggles. They hurried towards the doors of the container, and set down the large gas tank element of the blow torch on the floor. One of them took hold of the torch which was connected by a rubber hose to the tank. The second officer dug his hand into his pocket hunting for a lighter. Jez leaned forward to him with his hand held out.

“Here, use this one.”

              The constable jumped back, right into Jez, scraping his boot down his shin as the container came alive with a volley of deafening bangs on the walls. The container was almost swaying and bowing with the force of the hits the occupants were inflicting on the walls of their seafaring prison cell. 

“They must be running out of air or something. Get it open.” shouted Parker.

              The constable put on the gloves, pulled the goggles over his eyes and turned on the gas. He held up the torch, and struck the lighter. The torch burst into a prism of hot colour. He turned a lever on the side of the torch until the flame focused into a sharp blue flame and stepped towards the doors. As he bent down to the lower of the two locks on the right hand door, he paused and looked down at his feet. The second constable looked at him, confused as to why he had stopped. He grabbed his torch from off his belt and shone it down at the feet of his colleague. The constable was standing in a puddle of dark red fluid, which had seeped from the gap at the bottom of the doors and pooled outside the container. The constable froze, looking down at his new scarlet shadow cast behind him on the dark concrete surface. Steam slowly rising from the warm ooze as it seeped onto the cold dock.

“Something is very wrong with this.” Jez whimpered.

“Get that damn door open.” barked Parker, as he saw his career flash before his eyes.

              The constable snapped his head up and with gritted teeth he set about cutting the bottom lock. Sparks flew from the door and dowsed themselves with a hiss, in the ever increasing pool at his feet. After several agonizing seconds the padlock clanged down the door and splatted into the pool, splashing red fluid over the constables black trousers. He paid no attention and immediately adjusted his stance, raised the torch to the upper lock and set about cutting through the thick steel clasp. A few moments later the constable stopped, turned the torch off, and stepped back with the padlock in his hand. He held it up in triumph and edged back through the puddle as if he was retreating from a mine field.

“Get it open, get it open.” yelled Parker with clear panic in his voice.

              Several other police officers stepped forward and heaved the handles on the door locks up, until the door released and the pressure eased them open. The doors slowly swung wide and bounced as they reached the limit of the hinges. The gathered rescuers were instantly struck by a smell like no other. An overwhelming stench of faeces, vomit, and rotting flesh. Several men, no strangers to death in their line of work, threw up almost instantly. Pete hobbled back and collapsed against the forklift truck. Parker turned his back and pretended to talk on his radio, not wanting to show weakness to his fellow officers.

              Jez covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and fought the overwhelming odour to venture a look inside the container. He edged to his left to better his view, obscured by the doors and projectile vomiting police officers. Darkness from back to front, that seemed to swell and move like a wave of shadow. He couldn’t quite believe he’d missed her, he’d just looked straight to the back and didn’t even see her laid there. Face down at the front of the container. She couldn’t have been much older than 12 years old, with braided hair in pigtails and a long red and yellow dress with a flowery pattern.

              It quickly dawned on Jez that the dress wasn’t red and yellow at all. It had been yellow, once. The small African girl was laid on her right side with her back facing into the container. She was laid in a tight ball, as if she had been cowered into a foetal position. Her eyes were open and she was looking straight at Jez. But there was nothing in them. They were empty of life. Jez edged closer as one of the paramedics stepped forward, got down on one knee next to the girl, dropped his medical pack and started talking to her. He touched her shoulders and lightly shook her trying to get a response.  Suddenly he paused and leaned over the girl to look at her back. He gasped and stumbled back on all fours, his rubber gloved hands sliding deep into the thick bloody puddle underneath him.

“What? Is she dead?” said Jez.

“No. no.” stuttered the paramedic.

“It’s gone. It’s not there.”

“What isn’t?”

“Right everyone stay back, this is now a crime scene. We will get these people out in an orderly fashion and seal off the area.” Palmer directed.

       Jez ignored Palmer and stepped up to take a closer look at the girl, well, what was left of the girl. From her calves up to her shoulders, the length of her back was completely gone, the spine was exposed, disjointed and organs were hanging through the back of her ribs. Blood and tissue were seeping through onto the dusty container floor, and out under where the doors had been, into the bloody puddle outside. Pieces of her flesh were scattered further and further back into the container like a trail of bread crumbs.