A woman was sitting cross-legged with her back against the wall directly opposite them as they stepped onto the cellar floor. Her face was revealed in the torchlight. She raised her head, her eyes glazed and large inside the moon-like frailty of her face. Her blonde hair was lank and greasy, hanging to her shoulders. Naked, save for her underwear, she grinned at the men as they halted before her.
Florence’s aunt. Ralph recognised her from the photos.
She let out a short, high-pitched giggle. Wiped her mouth with the back of a pale, veiny hand.
The smell of yeast filled the air down here. It had become the air. The moist, pickling smell of fermentation.
Ralph said nothing. Frank said nothing. They directed their torch beams around the cellar.
Symbols and shapes had been carved into the wall above the woman’s head. Strange eldritch sigils. Crescents and nonsense shapes; curlicues and narrow dagger-like triangles. Shapes without meaning, at least to Ralph. All of these symbols were contained within a carved sphere filling most of the wall.
And on the wall to the woman’s left, there was something else. They trained their torches upon it, taking a step backwards as they realised what they were looking at.
“Fucking hell,” said Ralph.
Frank’s mouth fell open. He was blinking quickly, as if doing so would erase the thing on the wall from existence.
“Very soon,” said the woman. A whisper.
It was like a fungus, a sack of pulsing fluids and blubber, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Fibrous and wet, the same colour as a spider’s nest, glistening in the light. Big enough to fit a man and attached to the wall by some sort of resin. Patches of it were transparent. Something moved inside it.
“It’s a chrysalis.” Ralph stepped forwards.
“Careful,” said Frank.
Ralph shone his torch into the glistening sack, and it showed him what was curled up within the briny juice of its amniotic fluid. A shape. On the floor next to the wall there was a pile of dead rats, mice and birds.
The woman was humming a happy tune.
Wetly encased in the sack’s sallow skin was a head, a torso, and legs. The curved line of a jaw and a dreamy smile. Arms folded into its body, legs raised to its chest. Foetal. In the silence Ralph thought he could hear a heartbeat that wasn’t his own, muffled by the protective liquid enveloping it.
“Open your eyes,” he whispered to the thing.
The sack’s pulsing grew faster, reacting to his proximity.
Ralph held out the torch until it was almost touching the sack; it gurgled like an upset stomach. The creature within flinched.
Ralph wondered if it was dreaming. And what it dreamed of. What was it seeing behind its eyes?
“All flesh is useful,” said the woman. “Did you know that?”
Ralph turned to her. “What does that mean?”
“You’ll all be welcomed into the flesh. None of you shall go to waste. Every one of you. All the men, all the women…all the little children. All flesh is useful.”
Ralph stepped back alongside Frank.
“What’re you doing here?” Frank asked the woman.
She looked at him. A secretive grin. “He’s going to be a beautiful butterfly. I’m waiting for him to wake up. He’ll wake up soon. Maybe today.”
“Who is in there?” said Frank.
“Her husband,” said Ralph. “Florence’s uncle.”
The woman’s grin faltered. “Florence? I remember that name. A little girl. Part of my blood.”
“She’s your niece,” said Frank.
“That’s right,” said the woman. “I remember now. Is she here?”
“She’s outside,” said Frank.
“Maybe you should bring her down here. She can be a beautiful butterfly as well.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Maybe not now, but eventually…”
“Never.”
She giggled.
“What’s happening to your husband?” said Ralph.
Her eyes searched him up and down. The grin never left her face. “He’s becoming something else. He’s changing. Something better than before. Something stronger.”
“He’s turning into a monster,” said Frank.
The woman’s grin consumed her face until she was all teeth and eyes. “I’m waiting for him to emerge. He’ll make me like him.”
Frank looked at Ralph. “We’re done here.”
“We could kill them.”
“We don’t need to. They’re not a threat to us. Let them be together. They deserve that, at least.”
As they left the cellar, the woman said, “Say hello to Florence for me.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
After leaving Bordon they skirted the northern edge of the South Downs National Park, passing through Alton, Alresford and Kings Worthy.
Frank had told Florence that her aunt and uncle were dead. The girl accepted this without question. She was already traumatised by her parents’ death and killing Bertram, so the death of her aunt and uncle didn’t make much difference to her. She went to sleep with her head on Frank’s chest. It was best for her to sleep.
Poor girl
, Magnus thought.
How many other children are orphans now?
At least Florence wasn’t alone. Magnus was glad he wasn’t alone. At least they were all together.
They bypassed Winchester. The city was burning. A fire so intense it burned an afterimage in Magnus’s vision.
That night they stopped the car at a rest area just outside a small village called West Tytherley. The petrol gauge was getting low, but there would be enough to reach Salisbury.
In the morning they would enter the city. Getting closer to home.
The sky darkened into night. No stars. Magnus sensed the presences in the sky and was terrified one of them would find him again.
They were all hungry and thirsty. They slept in the car that night, and they locked the doors. They made sure to lock the doors.
* * *
Joel awoke in darkness, gasping and breathing hard. A second of confusion as to where he was. He rubbed his eyes, and then pulled his jacket up to his chin. The cold air embraced him. He felt like crying. He felt weak. He pulled out his crucifix, enclosed his right hand around it and closed his eyes.
Are you listening? Are you out there? Have you abandoned us?
Abandoned. Such a terrible word.
He opened his eyes, pocketed the crucifix. He inhaled a deep breath.
The others were sleeping. Ralph was snoring.
The stars were visible through a parting in the clouds. He stared at them for a long time. He fell into a trance-like state, his mind untroubled for a while, until the clouds closed and the stars went away again. He thought of Anya. In the light of his dying mobile phone he opened his wallet and took out the photo of them together, taken on a holiday in Norway. The freezing North. Cold enough to burrow into your skin and snap your bones. Mountains, waterfalls and ice. A land so beautiful it moved you to tears and stirred something wonderful in your soul.
He fell asleep with the photo in his hand.
* * *
Was it a dream or a memory? Or the memory of a dream?
Magnus was in the upstairs hallway of his house, outside Debbie’s bedroom. He usually slept in the spare room because she took up so much space, wheezing through her blubbery mouth and wriggling in her sleep.
He was holding a tray of food. A bowl of tomato soup, Debbie’s favourite. Four slices of buttered bread. A cup of sugary tea.
He could hear the boys playing downstairs. The thud and crash of the two brothers wrestling drifted up to him. Banging footsteps across the living room and out into the kitchen. One of the boys was crying. Adam, probably; he was smaller and weaker than Grant.
Glass smashed. Grant shouted. Adam was still crying.
Magnus shook his head. A vague depression settled upon him. The house smelled of dust, neglect, and Chinese takeaways rotting in a bin. A dirty carpet beneath his feet.
He looked down at the tomato soup and considered spitting into it, and then considered ejaculating into it. Cream of tomato. He wanted to throw the tray against the wall and scream. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be free again. The bond to his family was like a fraying rope gradually unravelling.
“Magnus, are you out there? I’m hungry.”
His body sagged, the air rushing out of him like he was a punctured balloon. He dug his fingers into the plastic tray, fought the urge to walk downstairs and out of the house.
Never come back.
“Yes, dear. I’m coming.”
Balancing the tray on one arm, he opened the door. The smell that greeted him made his eyes water. The curtains were drawn against the sunny morning. The only light in here was the lamp on the nightstand. Its glow was yellow and dirty. Old wallpaper was peeling off at the corners.
Debbie was on the bed, an obese mass beneath a stained duvet. A pallid moronic face, and bovine eyes, dull and glazed. Crumbs in one corner of her mouth. Knotted, greasy hair.
“Here you go, dear,” Magnus said.
Her eyes tracked him from the door to the bedside.
“I’ve got your favourite, dear.”
Debbie sniffed the air, glared at the tray. “I don’t like tomato soup.”
“But it’s your favourite.”
“Used to be. I like chicken soup now.”
Magnus made a rigid smile and wanted to tear off her face.
“Take it away. I don’t want it. I want chicken soup.”
Magnus said nothing. He was imagining making her eat his shit.
Her face bloomed pink. Her eyes shined. “I’m in the mood, Magnus.”
“Are you sure, dear?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He put down the tray.
“Undress,” she said.
He took off his clothes and then climbed into bed as she pushed aside the duvet. She parted herself to him and she was clammy, moist and stinking. A shellfish opening its gummy cleft. A smell of hot dogs in brine and pickled vegetables. Her large hands guided him into her. He wasn’t fully hard. She moaned and writhed, buckling underneath him. She was cold inside.
He took hold of her upper arms and thrust his hips forwards. She raised her hands to her sagging breasts and pinched her nipples. She yelped like a newborn crawling from a broken egg. Magnus pushed again. She pulled him towards her, to kiss her mouth, and her breath was like rot.
Their mouths joined. She moaned and cried beneath him.
Her body began to envelop him. She covered him in pale blubbery flesh until Magnus was a part of her.
He screamed once before he was absorbed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Ralph lit a cigarette and watched grey light seep into the sky. He’d stolen the cigarette and the lighter from Magnus. He took a drag, sucked the smoke into his lungs and was grateful for it. He’d given up smoking last year, but now seemed as good a time as any to restart his habit.
He breathed out, listening to the birdsong. Maybe they’d be home by the end of the day. It was possible, although he was inclined not to hope; it wasn’t in his nature.
The others were up, too; hands buried in pockets against the chill of the early morning air, their plumes of breath like smoke. They were tired, grey and sullen.
The fields were wreathed in mist. Earlier, when he’d been pissing onto a grass bank, Ralph had seen a family of deer moving silently amongst the white shrouds; ethereal shapes. Nature reminding him that it was still here. He had watched the deer until they vanished into the mist, and he wished them well with a bittersweet smile.
Ralph dropped his cigarette and put it out with one foot.
The sound of engines.
Magnus and Frank were looking down the road. Joel stayed near Florence, biting his nails. Ralph walked to the car.
“What is it?” said Joel.
Ralph loaded the flare gun and pocketed the spare cartridges. “Sounds like company.”
Magnus and Frank retreated to the side of the road.
A convoy of military trucks and other vehicles – jeeps and armoured cars – rounded the corner. Ralph remembered the soldiers slaughtering the infected children. He felt cold, suddenly.
“We’re saved,” said Joel. “We’re saved, aren’t we?”
The lead truck halted; the rest of the convoy did the same. A soldier jumped down from the cab of the first vehicle and approached them.
There were refugees in the backs of the trucks.
The soldier was talking to Frank and Magnus. Ralph watched. After they had finished talking, Magnus jogged back to the car.
“What’s happening?” asked Joel.
Magnus smiled. “They’re taking us to Salisbury. They’re going to help us get home.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Salisbury was a battleground. Smoke and fire. Smashed buildings. Roads clustered with wrecked cars and detritus. Piles of bodies at the roadsides. Streets of abandonment; of those things left behind. There were suitcases and plastic bags, some of which had spilled their contents, left by the roadside. Sporadic gunfire echoed around the city.
The convoy blasted through ruined streets, scraping viscera from the road with their wheels. Fighter jets screamed overhead. The concussion of artillery shells from outside the city made the ground tremble. The refugees in the trucks huddled together, seated on the metal benches or crammed on the floor. When Ralph and the others had climbed aboard the truck, some of the refugees greeted the sight of four grown men and a little girl with suspicion. Not surprising, really. He would have done the same.