His Brain Wasn’t Working

So hungry! He needed blood.

He rose gingerly from his position at the foot of the road. He tried to remember his name, but his brain wasn’t working. There was a strong stench in the air, and as his eyes acclimatized again, he wondered if it was connected to the vast pool of blood by his side. An arm instinctively felt down his side, where he found a gap where part of his hip used to be, but there was no panic. Just detached contentment. All he noticed was the smell, which he recognised as death. And a desperate hunger, which was one of those like when you don’t eat all day and then need a three-course takeaway.

He was standing and took a step forward. Shuffling at first, then quicker, and slowly he was getting back to his old speed.

What he presumed was his old speed.

And as he turned to look around him, he saw others who looked like him. In various stages of learning to walk again, and in various stages of blood loss. None of them seemed to be freaked out by that. On the contrary, they seemed quite content. Content! That’s how he felt. As if a thousand worries had melted off his brain. The brain that wasn’t working.

He walked around the city that day, ignoring the sun. Ignoring that he could now walk around the city in a day. Tried to deal with the hunger with a few rats, which dealt with it briefly but unconvincingly. He felt like he’d had a quick Rustler burger when he was longing for the full plate of mince and tatties. And everywhere he went, he saw people just like him, wandering the streets, looking for food.

It was their city. There were no others.

Buses lay abandoned in the streets. The debris of panic was everywhere. Windows smashed, car crashed into road signs, collisions, and for some reason two of the bridges into town had collapsed, as though deliberately. Some of the older buildings were riddled with fresh small holes. Still, that was all in the past, and there was just him and his kind. Carefree. Eating the rats. How many rats did this city have?

He walked into the top ward of the hospital. Looking for food. The floor was littered with dead bodies, but on opening the door, several of them stood up to look at him, before lying back down. One of us, one of us, no good. There was a large window which overlooked the towns general square. He went over to look down on the Cenotaph and the statues of old dignitaries, and the open grass spaces, and saw several of them wandering lost through the square.

Peaceful. But hungry.

And then, he heard it.

A cry.

A repeated cry.

A cry as though something terrifying had just woken up from a slumber.

A screaming cry which shook him to his foundations and seemed to rebound inside his head.

What was that horrible noise?

He looked down on the square, and for the first time in his new condition, he felt a beat of panic.

There was a little girl.

Seven, eight at the oldest.

In the middle of the square.

Somehow, despite all the precautions, a human had got into the city.

A human!

And one human alone was enough to spell danger.

He watched in horror as the two nearest the child approached it nervously. One held out a hand nervously. The child screamed, and as he held his ears in his hands, he saw the child hit the nearest one of them. They joined in the screaming, and as he watched in increasing horror, he saw the transformation, as her hair grew tidier, and her wounds healed, and she made the irreversible change.

There were now two humans in the square.

The woman immediately grabbed the other one who had approached the square and did something to its arm in quick motion. While it went into convulsions, the woman gave the crying child a hug.

He watched on in horror as bit by bit, the infection began to spread across the square.

Suddenly, there was six, twelve, thirty humans in the centre of town.

And they were running! Running!

Running to each new person and converting them.

It was an outbreak.

He looked around the ward and found several makeshift items to barricade the doors. Then he continued to watch from the window and felt ever so hungry. He glanced at the others in the room, who had given up some time ago of food. So hungry.

He realised that he was afraid in his mind, a new emotion, which he felt physically rather than connected much to it. Impulses. The crying seemed to have possessed the city. Now and again, he saw one of them trying to make a break for it, only to be overcome by the humans and converted to being one of them instead. The outbreak seemed to be out of control.

There was a knock at the door. He didn’t answer, because he didn’t want to, but he couldn’t answer anyway.

The mop he had used to barricade it snapped in half easily at the sound of a burly man kicking the door.

The door opened.

Humans had arrived.

He got across the ward to the window, as far as he could.

He saw the others jump up from the ground excitedly, but the humans swarmed over them before they could eat. He saw convulsions and sighs of relief as the others turned into humans. He looked at face to face to face, all staring back at him.

“You’re the last one,” said the burly man.

The last one? Of his kind? The outbreak had been so quick, it consumed the city.

“Come on Bill,” said another voice. One he thought he recognised. “It’ll soon be all over.”

But he didn’t want it to be all over, to be changed irreversibly. To be infected.

He tried to break down the window, but lack of food made his fists too weak.

He didn’t feel the injection, but he did see the burly man remove the needle from his arm.

And then he felt… pain!

He didn’t know what pain was, but this agony was likely it. He had a hole missing in his side, he had severe blood loss, his brain wasn’t working, and this was now a grave issue, and he began to worry. Which is to say, worry and want and proper existential fear and mortgages flowed back into him like too much cheap wine. And as the seconds wore on, he noticed the pain less and less, and began to remember more. Bill Hughes! That was his name. He worked in a bank. He had a wife and kids. A wife! Kids? What was happening to him?

He staggered forwards, and the burly man seized forward to grab him. Bill noticed that he wore a nurse’s outfit for the first time.

“It’s all over Bill, don’t worry!” he said.

“Jane? Brian? Erica?” said Bill slowly.

“Your wife and kids are fine,” said the burly man.

Bill sat down. He felt sore, and tired, and hungry.

So hungry! He needed burgers!

Author’s Biography

Michael S. Collins was born in a building since demolished in a universe thankfully still standing. He has had a number of stories published in the past (Diabolic Tales, The Vampire Connoisseur, etc) and is currently editor of Other Side Books. Michael lives in Glasgow, but continues to deny rumours he has a pet dragon."