As Quiet As It
Gets
by Mark West
Two Days Ago
I had meant to start this diary as
soon as it happened but I only found a stationary shop yesterday so I’m starting it
now.
Today was normal, not too bright or too hot - like it had been. I have been walking for some time now, mourning
the losses and celebrating my good luck though it has started to dawn on me that
everything’s finished and all that I’m celebrating will soon become loneliness
and boredom. I had all the world at my
fingertips - everything - and I hadn’t seen another living soul for three weeks (by
my rough estimates). You know, it’s
strange. The blast stopped my watch and all
of the digital read-outs on buildings just keep flashing odd numbers. On the RCI building back in Chaton, it kept
flashing “27:32” like that number had some significance. But without my watch, I’m having trouble
keeping up with time. I’m trying to keep
track of the days but, with the increased sunlight, I don’t know what time I’m
waking up.
I came across a car the other day, I think it was Wednesday. It was the first car I’ve seen that had all
of it’s windows intact even though the owners were still just two piles of black dust
on the seats. I debated getting in, to see if
it still worked but decided against it. It
wasn’t what I wanted and, with the joy of being alive still a novelty, I was enjoying
the romanticism of being an explorer, roaming the countryside. For the first time in my life I was free and I was
going to enjoy every minute of it.
I want to write more, to let you know what I think and feel, but I am really hungry
and my hand has started to ache now. I
suppose it’s repetitive strain injury but I’ve noticed my finger nails are very
pale. Oh well, off to bed.
Yesterday
I was walking past the ruin of a housing estate when I heard voices and,
bloody hell, did it give me the creeps ? It’s
been days, weeks, whatever - it’s been a long time and all of a sudden I could hear
people talking. I couldn’t see anyone so
I traced the sound back to the shell of a four bedroomed executive place and found, in the
kitchen, this radio. I think it must have
been one of those wind-up ones because the voices kept fading in and out but all the same,
it was life. At first, I thought the BBC had
put on a tape or something but then they mentioned a day which, by my calculations, was
today.
“If there is anyone out there, we urge you to come along and meet up with the
rest of the survivors.”
Something prickled up my back that was as far away from fear as it could be. Part of it was annoyance that somebody else was
about, trying to organise things but the other part was relief that I would finally be
able to talk to someone other than myself. I
sat amongst the rubble in the sun-drenched kitchen and listened a little more to the
broadcast. The voice sounded a little
agitated and keen to find someone else and said to meet at the village green in Aston. I knew it, vaguely and it was only about fifteen
miles away. I stood up, brushed myself down
and started off. First of all, though, I had
to eat and I found a Happy Shopper and helped myself to a can of Coke, a packet of crisps
and a Mars bar. Diets are out of the window
when all refrigeration has stopped and you don’t know what the ever-warming meat has
been infused with. I’ve been eating
tinned stuff, which is okay I suppose, but I sometimes wake up starving from dreams of my
mum’s Sunday roast, with all the trimmings. Apart
from rice pudding, fruit cocktail, cold soup (yuck !) and baked beans, I’ve had
nothing exciting to eat since the blast. As a
matter of fact, I’ve eaten more chocolate and drunk more Coke these past few weeks
than I have since I was born. I’ve also
taken up smoking again. I’d stopped
about a year ago because Simon hated it but now there doesn’t seem to be any point in
being sanctimonious. I mean, who’s going
to know ? What does it bloody matter if I
have a fag ?
The walk was enjoyable and the day just seemed to get hotter and go on forever so I
think I must have woken up really early. I
reached Aston just before twilight so I stopped in a barn and tried to get some sleep. One thing I have noticed is that since the blast,
the sky looks better than I can ever remember it looking.
The reds at night are redder and darker than I remember and the blue, with
hardly any clouds, is the same turquoise as the bloody Fiat Panda that Simon picked me up
in on our first date. I miss Simon, come to
think of it. He was getting on my nerves
before the blast and, truth be told, I’d been planning on dumping him but now,
without him next to me all the time, I think I’ve forgotten a lot of his annoying
habits and I’m looking at our relationship through rose tinted glasses. I’ve found myself asking the question of, why
me ? I mean, why did I have to miss it all. I went to my parents house - two piles of dust. Simon’s folks were the same, so was everybody
else. There was me, saved because I’d
been in the bloody chiller stock-counting the meat. Stock-counting. I hated that job, hated it with a passion but it
was on the rota, me to do the stock-count on the sides of beef hanging up in the freezer. I’m standing there, clip-board in hand, when
there’s this thud like a firework going off and it’s so bassy that you
don’t really hear it, you feel it in your guts.
There was nothing else, apart from the fact that the chiller light went out. One big thud, no screams and nothing else. Then, as I opened the chiller door to see what the
hell had happened, I heard hundreds of other bangs, screeching metal and the like and then
bits of the ceiling started to fall around me. I
knew I had to get out so I grabbed my coat and ran. Outside,
it was really peculiar. There was no-one
about but cars were driving into each other and into walls.
A Frontera went up the kerb and I thought it was going to plough into the
post office but it just stopped. The sky was
a gorgeous aquamarine and the clouds were fluffy and tinged with pink. But there were no people. The air smelt of exhaust fumes and I got a
peculiar taste at the back of my throat but that was it.
I walked home to find the house had collapsed, managed to get my rucksack
and some stuff out and then I made my way over to mum and dads.
I don’t know if it’s the end of the world, I really don’t. I know that might sound stupid, that I should
know, but I don’t. I have been making
my way across England now for three weeks or whatever and all I’ve ever seen are
piles of dust, but I don’t know. There’s
no blood, just buildings that are shells, cars that sit there empty and piles of dust that
seem to get smaller each day. I keep telling
myself I’m mistaken, that the end of the world should be a loud noise, lots of
screams and blood and mutations and everything else, but I’ve seen nothing. In fact, I probably look like a mutant because
there’s no running water and I started washing my hair in bottled water but it just
kept getting sticky.
I got some pains in my feet as I was walking and I’ve just had a look. As I pulled my socks off, my toe-nails went with
them. This doesn’t look good. My hand hurts like hell, it really does, but then
it would do because this is a big entry. Having
said that, my fingernails are bleeding. God,
I hope those people on the radio were genuine. The
broadcast stopped today as I was eating lunch and I so want to believe it’s because
the radio is knackered. I tried to wind it up
again but I couldn’t turn the winder thing.
Please let there be someone else out there, please.
I really want to see another human being now, I really do.
Today
Woke up with a splitting headache and, as I sat up, blood started to pour
onto my T-shirt. At first - and this is
really stupid - I thought I’d been mugged but the blood was coming (sorry, gushing)
from my nose. I could taste it - horrible and
metallic - in the back of my throat so I assume I woke up before I drowned. I sat forward and bent over and pinched my
nostrils until they began to hurt and finally the bleeding stopped. I peeled my T-shirt off and it was saturated and
so was my bra. I took that off as well and
got the last T-shirt and bra out of my rucksack. That’s
it now, fashion fans, if anything happens to this ensemble then I’m going to have to
find another clothes shop. A couple of days
(or so) after the blast, I looted New Look and got some kit. Actually, I don’t suppose that it’s
looting because I’m the last person alive - or at least I thought I was. I stood up but my left leg was completely numb and
I fell back. I looked at it and saw, with
disgust, that it had swelled up to about twice its normal size. My toes had started to turn black and there was
green ooze coming from the nail beds, exposed where the nails had fallen off yesterday. I ran my hand through my hair and clumps of it
came out in my hand. As I looked, at my
knackered leg and foot and my beautiful hair lying in my palm, I cried. For the first time, since seeing mum and dads
house, I cried.
I have just had lunch - can of Fanta, tin of beans and a Twirl. I am getting sick to death of eating chocolate
now, which is something that I thought would never happen to me. I am in the centre of town and it is really
spooky. It shouldn’t be, because
deserted towns are the norm for me now but I know there’s someone else here, someone
who’s alive and is smart enough to get a broadcast out. In the glass of a shop window, I tried to make
myself look presentable (pretty is something I gave up on some time back). I brushed my hair as best I could - there were
knots in it you wouldn’t have believed possible - and tucked in my T-shirt. My jeans look worn but they’re only three
weeks old so they’ll have to do. I know
that I must smell because I haven’t used deodorant for God knows how long as all the
cans seem to have exploded or something but the way I see it, if I can’t find any
deodorant, how’s anyone else going to ? It’s
doesn’t matter though, at the end of the day. I
mean, come on, get a grip. I am here, at the
end of the world and I’m worried about looking good and smelling great for someone
who managed to rig together a broadcast. For
all I know, they might be as bloated as my left leg.
I’m a fucking nut.
I was sitting on the green when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and it
made me jump, I can tell you. I haven’t
seen movement for weeks and, after the initial fear of ghosts and monsters (caused because
I was on my own, I am willing to bet), I’d got used to the stillness. In fact, the stillness is really nice. I used to like birdsong and traffic noise and
aeroplanes and children playing and dogs barking but now, all I can hear is me. That’s it.
At first, it drove me nuts but then, after a while, it grew on me that this
is as quiet as it gets.
The movement came again, this time by the nearest tree. I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked at it.
“Come out,” I said, “I won’t hurt you.”
There was a pause for a few moments and then someone stepped into view. It was a boy of no more than fourteen, dressed to
the nines, his hair slicked down to the top of his head.
He walked over to me, slowly and warily, as though expecting me to jump up
at any minute.
“Come on,” I said.
“Hi,” he said and blushed. “You’re
a girl.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Have you eaten ?” he said and licked his lips. He was quite tall but impossibly skinny and his
skin was pale and drawn tight across his face. He
reminded me of Ethiopian kids I’ve seen on the news but his belly was too small.
“Some,” I said. “Tinned
stuff and chocolate.”
“I would love a sausage roll,” he said, “or a Quarter Pounder with
cheese. Anything with meat.” He started to walk towards me and pulled a long
knife out of his trouser pocket as he came. “Can
I eat you, pretty girl ?”
He tried to leer but his face was too young to accept it. I couldn’t believe it was happening. I stood, as best I could with my knackered leg
and tried to hobble backwards but he ran at me and we fell over, rolling across the green
with this bloody great big knife somewhere between us.
“Meat,” he kept saying, “meat, meat, meat.”
I felt something sharp dig into my belly so I kicked upwards with my right leg. He woofed his breath onto me and fell to my side. I laid on my back and looked up at the clear sky,
too blue in it’s intensity and then he was on me again, one hand on my throat, the
other holding the knife up high so that the sun glinted off it. I shoved a hand into his throat to stop him moving
and jerked sideways. He started to fall to
his right and put out his knife-hand which hit the grass, slid and turned inward. He fell onto the knife and blood sprayed out
across my T-shirt. He rolled over twice
until the knife was only visible by it’s handle and I heard his life ebb away,
rattling in his throat.
After about ten minutes, I sat up and checked myself. My leg was even more swelled and the nail-beds on
my toes were now like green swamps. The nick
on my belly wasn’t bad but it stung like hell so I got up slowly and hobbled over to
the chemists and got myself some plasters. After
I’d sorted my wound out I walked along to Dotty Perkins and chose myself a whole new
ensemble.
When I’d finished, I walked back to the green where the boy was still lying. Hunger rumbled through my belly and images of my
last date with Simon, at the carvery, came into my head.
I looked around but there was, of course, no-one about.
I knelt down beside the boy and pulled the knife out of his belly. I wiped it on his T-shirt and, with the world
quiet around me, I had dinner.
Mark West is 31, married
and has been writing short horror fiction for the past 10 years or so. He began to
submit to the British small press in February 1999 and, to date, he has had 36 stories
accepted. These have been in various magazines (Sackcloth & Ashes, Enigmatic Tales,
Unhinged) and on-line (House Of Pain, Dueling Minds, The Goblin Muse and Redsine). Visit
his website at: www.mwest1.homestead.com
©2001
Mark West |