Tide of souls, p.3
Tide of Souls, page 3
The gunman inched backwards. I couldn't see his face. He was white and wore a leather jacket. It looked expensive. He pointed the gun at the knot of people.
"Stay where you are. Don't fucking move."
His voice sounded ugly, ragged and high-pitched. A man with a gun who'd panicked. Nothing more dangerous. How had it started? Who was he? Someone like Ilir, most likely. None of it mattered now. All that mattered was the gun.
That, and one other thing; he was backing towards our chimney-stack. What would he do when he found us? I pushed myself up into a crouch.
"Kat -"
"Sh." I put my finger to Marta's lips.
The gun would come in useful, if those things came out of the water. Even if it was only so that I could save myself and Marta from a death like Marianna's.
"Don't fucking move. Back. Back."
Someone moved. I didn't see who, I was watching the gunman. But he fired again. There was more screaming. Another body - no, two bodies - fell. I saw them from the periphery of my vision. Then I focussed again. It was the man I had to watch.
I crouched and lifted my hands. One would have to grab the gun. The other...
Papa had shown me all the different ways a man could be killed with a single blow, but I'd never used any of them. I'd spent the last year as a slave, not daring to even think of striking back. But now... I didn't feel the same. It hadn't been long, since I'd broken out of that room, but I felt different. I felt like somebody who could use what Papa had taught me. Who could deliver one of those killing blows. I hoped I was right. There would only be one chance.
He was inching back along the roof. His foot slipped. He yelled, flailing for balance. Was he going to go over and save me the job? No; his free hand grabbed the rooftop and he steadied himself. He was shaking. I didn't know if it was fright or fury. Then he was backing up again.
I could hear Marta's tiny, whimpering breaths. I forced myself to shut them out. And the screams of the poor frightened bastards further down the roof. And the sounds from the water. I just focussed on the man with the gun.
He was almost at the chimney stack now. I could hear his breathing. It was wild and gulping and hoarse.
"That's right. Stay where you fucking are. Don't fucking move. Don't -"
He'd reached the stack, grabbed at it with his free hand. Then he stiffened and whipped round. He had a thin face. Sandy hair. Pale eyes wide in shock and rage and madness. He was only in his twenties. He might have been younger than me. But he had the gun. And then the gun whipped up towards my face -
I hit the inside of his wrist with the edge of my left hand. The gun was knocked sideways and fired, perhaps twenty centimetres from my ear. Marta shrieked. The gunshot felt like I'd been punched in the side of the head. I boosted myself to my feet, driving my right hand upwards, heel-first. I knew the exact spot I was aiming for, at the base of the nose. Papa had taught me this; a blow there, from underneath, can smash the bone up into the brain. Result: instant death.
The angle of the blow had to be just right. If I missed, or got it wrong -
Pain shot down my arm. I felt the give of the breaking bone, and sickness burned the back of my throat. The jarring pain of impact as my hand slammed against the skull. The hot, sick spray on my hand and face as his nose exploded into blood and tissue. The gunman's head rocked back and he dropped the pistol. It slid past us.
He toppled backwards, face splashed red, his nose pulp - blood coming out of his eyes - sliding down the far side of the roof and off the edge.
A dozen pairs of green lights gleamed in the brown water where the narrow backyard had been. As the faces began resolving themselves through the murk, he crashed into the water.
I swayed, off-balance. Marta caught hold of my arms and steadied me. He'd been dead before he hit the water. The heel of my hand was bruised and throbbing.
From the backyard, I heard the waters churn and splash, heard things tear and break.
Marta was wide-eyed and crying.
"It's alright," I told her. "It's alright."
The gun had come to rest on top of the casement. Marta saw where I was looking. I looked back at her. "We need it," I said.
I thought she was going to argue, but she didn't. After a moment, she just nodded. She was starting to look less panicked now. Good. It would be easier if she was able to think for herself a little. Not too much. Not so that she started arguing with me or brooding, but enough that I didn't have to explain everything.
It went smoothly enough. When I reached the casement, I felt it creak under my feet, and tensed, afraid it'd give way. I listened out for thumping sounds in the attic, but there weren't any. I crouched and picked up the gun. Found the safety catch and put it on. Thrust it through the waistband of my jeans. And started to climb again.
By the time I reached the top I was shaking. Delayed reaction. And the cold. I managed a smile anyway. Marta smiled back.
And we settled down to wait.
Chapter Three
The rain had slacked off; the waters had stopped rising, for now at least. The creatures were nowhere in sight. Now and again there was a gleam of green light. No more.
Cold was the enemy now. My teeth chattered. Marta's too. We huddled together for warmth.
With stiff, awkward fingers, I tugged the pistol from my waistband and slid out the magazine. Nine rounds. A tenth in the chamber.
I'd hold them off as long as I could. If they could be killed again. Ten bullets. Eight for them. Two for us.
I put the magazine back in and put the gun back in my waistband. I still shook occasionally. Some of it was the cold. Some was what I'd just seen. The rest was what I'd done. I kept reliving the blow, the feel of the man's nose driven back into his brain. He'd pointed the gun at me, yes. But I'd planned to kill him from the first. I would have done it no matter what, because he was a threat.
Was it like this for you, too, Papa, the first time?
Marta stirred and mumbled. I nudged her and her eyes opened; she moaned, glaring at me for disturbing her. But we had to stay awake; it was too easy, in the cold, to drift off and die. On the other hand, perhaps that way wouldn't be so bad. A warm, toasty feeling, then sleep, never waking again. Peaceful. But...
But if they came for me while I slept, only waking, when they bit into my flesh like a ripe peach...
I shook my head like a dog shaking water, forced myself to sit up straight. I looked up, praying for an aircraft. Some sign of life. Rescue.
But I knew there'd be none. Manchester was many miles inland. If it was underwater, what of the rest of the country? London was on an estuary. London would be gone. And the government? If they were anywhere, it would be in a bunker, keeping themselves safe, jealously preserving what they had. Wherever you went, that didn't change.
And still the cold, pelting rain fell. Marta moaned faintly again, straightening up. "Easy," I said.
"I'm cold," she said.
"Me too, little one."
Nothing else to say or do. Sit here and slowly freeze. Nowhere to go. I looked up Cheetham Hill Road, the people huddled on the rooftops, hunched on the sloping sides. Most were Asian, women in bright saris, men in shalwar kameez, but I saw people of all colours, in smart dress and casual. But the rain, the cold, the terror made everyone more and more alike. A woman caught my eye, middle-aged and plump, in bright sodden clothing, like a half-drowned tropical bird. She forced a trembling smile. I forced one, then looked away. Little customs. Etiquette. None of it meant anything now. No help would come. We'd been abandoned.
Nothing I wasn't used to.
There was higher ground than this, somewhere. Further above sea level. Relative safety, if we could only get there. But even if we crawled along the rooftops, even if we found a path through the huddled crowds there, sooner or later, there'd be nowhere to go but the water. And in the water...
Eyes open or shut, I kept seeing Marianna, pinned down and torn apart.
So far, they'd stayed in the water, or the flooded buildings. They hadn't come out into the open air, onto the roofs. Were they afraid?
What if Marianna came back as well? Could I aim a gun at her, and fire?
Not that it seemed likely. There would be nothing left of her. Nothing that could move. In a way that was almost worse. I imagined pieces of Marianna - a severed head, a string of vertebrae - bobbing in the water lapping out on the landing, empty eye sockets filled with green light.
Someone screamed. I forced my eyes open. The group to my left. The Asian family. A small, chubby man with a long white beard was pointing downwards.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again. I wasn't sure what I was seeing. My vision must be blurred. But I looked again, and I saw the same thing. The water below, filled with points of glimmering light. Green light. Dozens, even hundreds of pairs. All staring upwards. At me.
I don't know how much time passed. I tried not to look, but every so often my gaze would shift, wandering down to the water, and they'd be there. Once or twice I saw new sets of eyes appearing, blinking on like activated lights.
They were gathering.
My fingers were wrinkled from the damp. Marta was very pale. Perhaps hypothermia would get us first. I almost willed it on.
My right hand still throbbed, despite the cold. The heel of the hand. If I fired the gun, that was where the recoil would hit. Christ, that would hurt.
All we could see were their eyes, watching. There were so many of them. And they were already dead. We wouldn't stand a chance. What are they waiting for? What?
When the attack came, it was almost a relief.
A face broke the surface, little more than a collection of holes in a clump of greenish-black sludge. Two hands rose, either side of it. More faces appeared. First in ones and twos, then by the dozen and the score. A forest of faces, jammed together. Rotted, grinning ones. Bloated ones, like maggots with glowing eyes. One was little more than bone. And others that hardly looked dead at all. Except for the eyes.
They reached out of the water, clutching at brickwork, drainpipes, shop-signs - anything that gave them a handhold - and started to climb.
There were screams now, like steel on glass. Deafening. A terrible, helpless sound. But I had the gun. I had the gun.
That made the panic go away; I felt numb, inside and out. Marta clung on to me. But she wasn't screaming. Or crying. I think she'd realised the same as me - with the gun we could cheat the dead things, if nothing else.
I watched them climb with that odd, dull sense of detachment. I wasn't afraid, not then. It had gone out of me. The shock, perhaps. Or perhaps there is only so much a person can sustain before something gives way.
They moved slowly, stiffly. When they brought their arms up and over to grab the latest handhold, it was like watching an old, clockwork machine, badly rusted and winding down.
But with purpose in spite of it all, relentless and inexorable. They climbed over each other - not jostling, not fighting. That was the worst part. They were an army, acting as one. They used one another to advance as a mass. Towards us. A wall of dead, rotting flesh, studded with glittering green eyes.
Hands groped out of the casement, clutched the edge of the frame. A head and shoulders followed. The blue woman.
Dragging herself out, she leant her weight on her arms, and hauled herself onto the casement top. A clumsy forward lunge landed her on the slope of the roof. Crawling on all fours, she began to climb. Her eyes didn't leave my face. It would be easy, if I just kept staring into them. I mightn't even feel anything.
Marta was shaking me. "Katja. Katja. Use the gun."
Screams shrilled across the street. The creatures had reached a rooftop. Brutal, simple tactics. One lunged out, seized hold of someone and pulled. The first brought half a dozen people down with it. Falling, they dislodged others. Pebbles in an avalanche. Three careered straight down the roof's slope and off it into the water, which exploded into churning froth as they were borne under. Others clung to the roofing, tried to stop sliding and climb back up, but more dead things closed on them. A teenage boy slid, screaming and scrabbling, until a dead thing grabbed his arm, twisting it up towards its jaws. Others scrambled in to join the feast.
A dull thudding, behind us. The ones in the back yard. They'd be climbing too.
The blue woman crawled on. Her face opened in a hissing snarl.
"Katja!"
Marta grabbed for the pistol, and I was awake again. I slapped her hand away and pulled the pistol out, took the safety off, fingers stiff and clumsy. The blue woman's hand rose up, clutching and clawing at the air, slapped down on the tiles.
Papa taught me to shoot. So long ago now. I hoped I could still remember.
Aim with both hands, one steadying the other. At the chest, the centre of the body's mass; squeeze the trigger slowly and gently - pull it hard and you'll spoil your aim.
She looked at the gun and cocked her head to one side, almost quizzically.
The gun's bark, jagged in the cold still air. Pain jolted up my arm as the butt recoiled into my bruised hand; I almost dropped it. A brass shellcase tinkled down the roof-slates, and the blue woman reared backwards and fell. Her body slid and rolled till it hit the casement. A hole gaped in the centre of her chest.
Good shot.
The dead things climbing behind her stopped, staring at her. I held the gun ready, smoke drifting from its barrel and breech.
The blue woman's head rocked side to side. She rolled over, showing the ragged exit hole in her back, and started climbing again.
The screams gathered in close, pressing down on my ears like hands. The blue woman's eyes expanded, filling the world.
I aimed at her forehead. If that didn't stop her, I'd turn the gun on Marta and myself, while there was still time for a quick death.
I hardly felt the recoil this time. A small, neat hole dotted the woman's forehead. Dark matter flew out in a spray from the back of her head, like a flock of scattering crows. Her mouth formed an O. She went completely still.
Then her eyes... faded. Like dying lamps. The glow in the empty sockets dimmed, and was gone.
Her limbs locked her in her crouch, then slackened and tipped her backwards, sliding. She thudded to a halt against the guttering, lolling half-over the water. The dead things around her, around us, stopped climbing. One reached out and prodded her. They stared up at us. Then back down at her.
I almost felt a sense of loss. At least the blue woman had been an enemy with a face.
"Katja, behind us," Marta whispered.
It was crawling up the other side of the roof, from the backyard, a tangle of bones and rags clotted with green-black mud that had once been flesh. It suddenly accelerated as if in a speeded-up film, scuttling up towards us like a putrid spider.
I brought the gun across and fired. One eye-socket blew out like a shattered bulb as the bullet snapped its head round. The remaining eye dulled and was extinguished. The remains cartwheeled down the roof, flying apart as they went. They fell into the water and sank. But other faces were filling the flooded backyard.
The blue woman lay where she'd fallen. The other dead things still surrounded her. Then they stepped back and slid down into the floodwater, the lights of their eyes dimming in the murk before disappearing.
When I looked back down at the yard, that was empty too. They didn't come near us; they left us alone.
Just us.
Perhaps if anybody else had been armed... but they weren't. The roofing in the neighbouring building caved in suddenly, collapsing under their weight. The white-bearded man lost his balance and fell in. The rest of his family shrieked. He screamed too. The dead things crawled out of the hole; the ones who weren't busy devouring him. They swarmed up towards the survivors... and just threw themselves forward, bowling the whole mass of them, living and dead, down the far side of the roof. The shrieks were swallowed up, lost in the churning and thrashing of water, the tearing of flesh and the splitting crack of bone.
I had to look away. Even if it cost me my life, I couldn't look. But I could still hear.
I tried to shut it out. Maybe I succeeded. I can't quite remember when I realised the screaming had stopped. At first I thought I'd gone deaf. But then I registered the hiss and splatter of falling rain, the slap of floodwaters against the buildings. The squeak of rats, the patter of their paws. And the wind; I felt it chill me, and I heard it moan. But there were no more screams.
I had no idea what sounds the dead things might make. Did they breathe? They were dead, after all.
I knew when I looked up, they'd be standing around me, silent and motionless, waiting for me to see them, so I'd know. Perhaps if I didn't look up they'd let me live.
"Katja?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think they've gone?"
"Who?"
"Those things. Whatever they are. They could be all around us."
Great minds obviously thought alike.
"What do you think?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"I think we should look."
We were going to die anyway, if not by the dead things then by cold, starvation, or disease or just falling off the roof when we fell asleep. If we looked now there might be time to use the gun. "I think so too."
"OK then."
"OK." I opened my mouth to count to three.
"They're gone," said Marta.
I looked along the rooftops, across the street. The dead things were gone.
So were the living. Rats scurried along the gutters; two bedraggled pigeons alighted on an abandoned rooftop. But there were no people. None.
Blood splashed the brickwork and tiling; here or there a child's doll lay in a gutter, or a handbag, a shoe, lay on the tiles. The bus's windows, still cracked and blood-smeared, were no longer steamed. The top deck was empty. Anything living had either been eaten or got up and walked, living no longer.
If those things killed us - if we weren't devoured completely - would we become like them?
And where were they?
"Where have they gone?" Marta whispered.
