Journey's End
by Paul McAvoy

Psychics, fortune tellers and those who believe in that sort of thing might tell you it was fate that led me to catch the number thirteen bus into town that Monday morning in the middle of August. I call it just plain bad luck, even though I don’t believe in that sort of thing.

I’d set of for work from my brother’s house, having spent the night there, and as I drove around the corner I heard a strange squealing noise I first thought was my car stereo. I turned off the machine and the noise persisted. No, not the stereo, my exhaust. It had come away and was dragging on the floor. A four-minute scrutiny told me that I had no chance of fixing the thing, so I headed for the nearest bus stop to catch a bus.

And there I was riding on the bus minding my own business and thinking about my brother and his wife. Three weeks previously, my brother had been almost certain his wife’s body had been taken over by some malevolent demon from hell, either that or she had taken up popping pills and was becoming a manic depressive. He had even thought she might be having an affair or that his real wife was hidden somewhere and this alien was walking around in her place, looking like her, talking like her…but not her.

Then he got home from work one evening and she told him how she had been to Tescos for a certain tester and that this tester had revealed that she was pregnant. Hallelujah! My brother had thought. He was going to be a father; it was something he had always wanted, he was overjoyed. That’s why his wife had been acting this way!

We had been up most of the night, my brother and I, sipping lager while his wife slept. We had chatted about the baby; we had chatted about the past and the future. He had asked me when there would come the patter of tiny feet from mine and my girlfriend’s direction. I had just smiled, noncommittal.

These thoughts were in my head as we raced along the main roads of Fernley on the bus. It was one of those small buses that seemed to have about as much suspension as my grandfather’s old Hillman Imp. I felt each pothole run through my body; my neck ached as we turned corners. It was a roller-coaster ride through Hades and I remembered why I had bought a car and become a driver in the first place.

There were four of us on board and we had all paid the ferryman before we got to the other side. I was sat at the back, a grey old lady was sat halfway along to my right, just behind her and to my left sat a pimply youth with a hissing Walkman. And at the front was the old guy.

Writing about the old guy now makes me feel stiff and rigid; it sends my heart racing and my brow prickly with sweat. But I guess I will have to do this to exorcise the demons from that day, to perhaps learn to cope with what happened at the bus stop. Not to forget. No, I will never forget…but to at the very least I might be able to put it all into perspective, if I can.

He was quite old, you could see that just by the clothes he wore. When I boarded the bus I had smelt that old smell only old people could emanate. Musty, matured…and a bit pissy. Not that I have anything against old people: I will be looking at one in the mirror in years to come. But the fact is, old people do smell this way. And the old guy smelt like this with a vengeance.

So, there I was sat at the back of the bus, hoping the journey would end now, looking at my fellow passengers, looking out of the window, thinking about my brother and most of all cursing the guy who had supposedly repaired my exhaust six months ago, when from the front of the bus came this loud squeal.

I blinked from my reverie with a jerk and looked along the bus. The old guy at the front was on his feet and he was looking to the ceiling, hands clasped around his stomach. The old lady had stood up and was peering over at him. The youth with the Walkman had tugged the headphones from his head and had them in his hands. He too was looking at the man at the front of the bus.

The old guy squealed again.

The bus driver pulled up by the side of a bus stop and turned in his chair, asking the old guy if he was all right. The old guy let out another squeal, his head still turned to the ceiling. Then he lurched forward and made his way to the door.

‘Let me out,’ he said. ‘Let me out, now.’

The driver shrugged. ‘Whatever you want, mate.’ The doors hissed open and the old guy stumbled off the bus and then fell flat on his face. A moment past. It might have been just a second or two, but it seemed to last for longer. The old woman, Walkman and the bus driver just looked down at the pavement at the old guy, not really sure what to do next.

I stood up and hurried down the bus, deciding that the guy was obviously in trouble (he did not appear to be moving) and that someone had to do something. Not that I knew much about first aid, only something my girlfriend had once told me to do should I ever find myself in such a situation. My girlfriend, who was a trained nurse, had told me about the ABC method or something of that description. As I hurried down the bus, I tried to recall what she had said. ABC… check the airway, check the breathing, check the… check the… I could not remember.

Air. Breathing…

Damn it, what else?

I tried to remember as I rushed down the bus, aware that the passengers and the driver were now looking at me. No, I am not a doctor… but my girlfriend’s a nurse, so I will save him. Hell, I did not know what I thought I was going to accomplish as I raced down the bus like a demented Dr Kildare. But there was no one else to help, you see. The passengers were in too much shock and the pavement was empty of people. The guy was led by the bus on his front. He needed help. I had to at least try.

Then it came to me as I reached the door. Circulation.

ABC. Airway, breathing, circulation.

I stumbled off the bus and looked down at the old guy for a moment.

Airway, I thought. Check his airway. Breathing? Shouldn’t I make sure he was breathing first?

He had fell on his face, was his head hurt? I had heard you should never move somebody when they have hurt their head. But how was I to check if he was breathing without moving his body? I thought of my girlfriend, I wished she were here. She would have all the answers.

I decided to move the old guy on his back. His head flopped on its side, something clear but runny slivered out of his mouth. I pressed my hand to his neck and felt for a pulse. Nothing. I felt my own heart beat racing in my chest. I put a hand to his mouth, felt for air. My own breathing was heavy. I loosened the top button of his shirt. I felt sweat develop on the back of mine.

I needed to rest something under the back of his neck so there would be a clear airway so I could give him mouth to mouth. I took off my jacket and screwed it up. I wondered how long I had been here, doing this. It seemed like ages. With my finger and thumb I slowly opened his mouth.

I sensed movement to my right and looked up to the see the bus driver had got off the bus. He looked down at me, flustered, scared. ‘I’ll go call an ambulance,’ he said and hurried away from the scene.

I turned back to the old guy. I had not noticed before, but his face was lined with deep wrinkles and was the colour of sour milk. His hair was white, matted and bristles protruded from his nose like small creatures trying to escape. He was quite tall and wiry with long limbs. I reached down and closed his nostrils with the finger and thumb of my right hand.

‘Is he dead, mate?’

I looked to my left and standing next to me was the youth with the Walkman. The headphones were around his neck, still hissing as the machine was still turned on. Absentmindedly, I switched the Walkman off and the youth did not seem to notice.

I turned back to the old guy and looked down at his mouth. The lips were incredibly blue. I reached down, parted them and took a deep breath. What had my girlfriend told me about mouth to mouth? She had said something about massaging the heart too. God, I wished I had listened to her more carefully.

I took in a deep breath, then I slowly leaned towards the old man.

What happened next will be with me for years to come, as it has been with me ever since that August morning. Invading my thoughts, changing dreams to nightmares. There are good days, but those days are few and far between. That moment, that second, it changed my life forever. It destroyed my life, really. I wonder if I can ever be the same man again.

For as I leaned forward, something black and slippery shot out from the old guy’s mouth and into mine. I gagged as I lurched backwards, too shocked to do anything at first. The black thing was about the size of a tennis ball, but more pliant. I collected myself, left the old guy alone and tried to spit the thing out of my mouth. But I felt tentacles shoot from the black thing and wrap around the back of my throat. I struggled onto my side and tried to cough the thing out of my mouth, but it had too much of a grip on me.

With a sudden spasm, the black thing shot down my throat and into my stomach. I stood up, feeling sick. I leaned forward and rubbed my stomach. I tried to wretch. Walkman looked at me.

‘You okay, mate?’ he asked, eyes wide. He knew that I was not. I could feel the thing inside me. It was a heavy lump; it twisted and turned. Borne from the out of the old guy, it was within me now. And, strangely, I knew that it would be with me forever. It was something alive. I knew this from the moment it entered me. It would be with me, inside me, until I became this old guy, until I was led on some pavement, dead.

*

Later that night I killed my girlfriend.

They were my hands that grabbed her by the throat; they were my teeth that pierced the skin on her neck. My lips sucked her blood. But it was the thing inside me, controlling me, hungry, needing to be fed. It was the thing. It wants to survive and to do that it needs blood. Thick, warm, fresh blood.

They arrested me eventually on so many counts of murder I have forgotten. I told them about the creature. They did tests on me, to keep me quiet. They cannot see the thing. It hides. It’s sly, you know?

Since coming to this place I have been to the library, I have read books on science and the occult; books on myths and legends. I have tried to learn what the creature is, but without success. The nearest example I can give is that it is like a vampire.

It does communicate with me, in its own way. Normally when it wants the blood. I have tried to talk with it, but it rarely answers me. I am nothing to it, just a body, a shell it uses. It treats me like I would treat a jacket or any other form of clothing..

Oh, how many have I killed to satisfy the creature’s bloodlust? Must be hundreds. Before I was arrested, many, fewer since I have been in this place where they give me pills that help me but only a little bit. A nice young doctor comes to see me once a week. She is pretty, fresh out of medical school. She is planning a future in psychology and likes to talk to me. I am tied up in my straitjacket when she comes. I like her, but so does the creature. It is only after the blood, but I plan to control the thing, make sure the young woman is not hurt.

But the straitjacket they wrap around me is getting old and frayed. It has been months since I attacked one of the inmates and I think the orderlies and the nurses think I am pretty much harmless now since the extra drugs were introduced to my daily amount. But they are wrong. They don’t listen when I tell them. They laugh at me. Laugh at the crazy guy.

So it is down to me and me only. I guess it will always be me. I am so alone. But I will try to make sure the beast does not get its way. She will not get hurt. I will keep the thing in control.

And perhaps die trying.

©2002 Paul McAvoy

Paul McAvoy hashad other fiction published in Dark Horizons and Kimota, to name but two, as well as at The House Of Pain. He is married with a young daughter. His website is at www.geocities.com/paulmcavoy