Glossary
Rotter: A derogatory term for the partially deceased, as they are referred to by those who are more sympathetic.
Rabid: A rotter in its untreated state.
The Rising: When the dead were brought back to life.
Neurotryptiline - The drug administered to rotters to keep them from turning rabid. It's administered through a hole in the rotters' necks, just above the spine.
Blue Oblivion: A drug which is able to revert rotters back to how they were in their violent, untreated state.
"And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you."
— Kiersten White, The Chaos of Stars
He becomes aware of someone following him within ten minutes of leaving home. The only sound is his own quiet footsteps along the pavement. The walk from the flat into town is deserted tonight; he doesn't pass a single person, and the air feels calm, still. He can't hear the rustling of the trees like he sometimes does, or a car alarm going off, or the sound of children's laughter echoing from houses.
But he knows there's someone. Someone watching him, someone on his trail. He's learnt to pick up on these things, to have these instincts, and it's been a long time since they've failed him. His body's learnt to listen to them, and it listens now; he walks even more slowly to try and cut off the noise completely, but he makes sure not to turn around, not to look far off so that whoever - or whatever - is after him will know that he can sense their presence.
He doesn't need this tonight. He's already late for the town meeting. He'd tried to get out of bath time, but Amy had insisted that he stayed. He'd been in a hurry drying Leah and Lucas's hair, roughly toweling it until the water no longer dripped down onto his clothes. He'd tucked them into bed, kissed them, promised he'd be back early tonight, that they'd never even know he was gone.
Sometimes he has to lie.
He pushes them from his head, knows he has to concentrate. It's dark out, and one of the street lights is broken. He wants to run - his legs are almost trying to move faster of their own accord, his brain telling him to move forward, to seek out somewhere crowded, somewhere where he won't be alone anymore.
"Don't be a fucking coward." He says it aloud to make it real, to make it so he can't fight against it. He tenses his hands until the shaking subsides, his knuckles turning white with the pressure, and reaches down to take out his gun.
He doesn't raise it. He keeps it by his side, turning his head ever so slightly to the left and right, scanning the road, preparing himself.
He knows it can't be a trick. It can't be someone sneaking up on him or playing a prank. They wouldn't do that, not in this town, not after everything that's happened. You don't catch people unawares here, don't even attempt it. He's being followed with intent. This isn't a game.
He hears it then: half way between a snarl and a roar, a noise which is familiar to his ears but which still causes him to shudder and spin around at lightning speed, almost dropping his gun in the process.
Breathe, Ste. Breathe.
It's what he expected: a rabid. Taller than him. Male. Ten, fifteen years older perhaps. The thing's dressed scruffily in a worn t-shirt, holed jeans and faded trainers. He hadn't been expecting that, for the rabid to look so normal. It looks like someone that Ste could meet anywhere, and he forces himself to focus on its face; takes in the deformity of its eyes, the stark paleness of its skin, almost translucent in colour. The rabid's body is contorting, and it advances towards him slowly, the gradual pace only making Ste grow more afraid. He wants this over with now. He wants this done.
This isn't the first rabid that Ste's seen on Blue Oblivion in recent months, but it's the first he's had to deal with alone. Small bottles of the stuff had somehow been passed around, and most of the takers have been caught and killed.
Ste hopes this is the last.
The rabid bares its teeth. Ste can smell it from here; the decay, the lingering residue that increases in strength the closer the thing gets. There's a blankness in its eyes that Ste's come to expect, but he only settles on them for a moment. He doesn't like looking at them when he pulls the trigger. He stares anywhere else instead - its shoulder, its arm, its legs - and watches as the rabid's body folds over and falls to the ground. It takes less than a minute for it to go down, just one shot of Ste's gun required.
Ste stares around him, expecting someone from one of the houses to come running out, or to see a curtain twitching and eyes peering from behind, trying to see what's going on.
There's nothing. There's just him and the body.
He gets out his phone and dials. He waits for someone to pick up, his gun still in his hand.
"It's me. I'm going to need your help."
::::::
They shift the body together, putting it in the boot of Tony's car and driving until they've reached a spot where they can bury it. Tony's prepared, has brought a shovel which they pass between the two of them, taking it in turns to dig at the earth underneath until one of them tires.
Ste's the first one to need a break. He passes the shovel to Tony, sitting on the untouched earth next to him, trying not to look across at the body.
"You did good work, Ste." Tony's voice is full of encouragement. It's too forced, too reassuring to make Ste feel at ease.
"Thanks," he says, knows that's what Tony wants to hear. He chews at his lip, feeling the skin there peeling, coming apart. "The others aren't mad at me, are they? For missing the meeting."
Tony laughs. "Mad? You're their new favourite person."
"You what?"
"You killed a rabid single handedly, Ste. Not even Warren's done that."
Ste frowns. "But what about all them stories?" They're famous in this town; Warren being cornered by four rabids, coming away from it with nothing more than a bruise and a scratch.
Tony gives him a look. "Yes, because Warren Fox has never lied before. Come on. You don't really believe all of that?"
"Well it did seem a bit unlikely..."
They laugh. They throw the rabid into the open grave, scattering dirt and earth over its body.
Tony ruffles Ste's hair.
"You're a hero, mate."
::::::
Amy's waiting up for him when he comes home. He's quiet opening the door, so quiet that it seems to startle her when she sees him, jumping from where she's standing near the hallway.
"Sorry," he whispers, hanging his jacket up, making sure that he doesn't get mud from his shoes all over the carpet.
All he can think about is sleep. He plans to brush his teeth and take his clothes off - onto the floor, putting them away can wait till morning - and be in his bed as soon as possible. But Amy's like a barrier blocking him, staring at him expectantly like she's got other things in mind.
He tries to get past, but she spreads her arms so they're touching one side of the wall and the other.
"Gun." Her voice is steely, her face devoid of emotion. But he knows her; he know that she would have spent hours preparing for this moment, for the courage to say this to him.
"What?"
"Don't play dumb with me."
"I'm not -" The protest dies on his lips when he takes in her expression, the way it breaks, the way her lip trembles before the mask goes up again. She deserves better than this. Better than him. He takes his gun out of his back pocket. He'd been hoping that he would be able to sneak past her and avoid her seeing it. He realises now how naive he'd been.
He places the gun in her hands, and she immediately puts it out of arms reach.
"Ames, I'm sorry."
She's walking away from him and into the living room. He watches as she stands on a chair and stores the gun on the highest shelf, where the kids won't be able to get to it. She pushes it back as far as possible, behind some photographs so that Ste can't even see it when he looks up.
When she's climbed down she's right up in his face, eyes wide and furious.
"You promised me. You promised me you wouldn't keep it in the house anymore." She jabs at his chest. It barely makes an impact, doesn't even make him stumble back, but he can feel how much she hates him, can feel the sting of it.
"I was going to get rid of it, I swear." He sees the way she laughs in derision, shaking her head at him like he's fed her another lie. "I was! I was going to give it to Warren to keep, but I..."
He stops. He hadn't had time to think about what his plan was going to be. His night had been mapped out for him: he'd go to the meeting, give Warren the gun and explain that he couldn't store it in the flat anymore, that Amy didn't want it around the kids. He knew it would result in an argument - Warren never made anything easy, never gave him a free ride if he could make his life hell instead - but he'd be rid of the thing at last, either way. He'd be able to return home with his conscience clean, knowing that Amy would be able to look at him again, that she'd stop seeing him as someone who had put their kids in danger.
"What, Ste? You what?"
She's waiting, and he can feel himself panicking, fighting for excuses. He'd rather she be scared of a gun accidentally going off than think that he could have died fighting a rabid tonight. She might not even want to leave the house again, knowing that one of those things was within touching distance of them.
Ste looks away from her, sinking into the nearest chair, his shoulders sagging.
"I just forgot, that's all."
He doesn't apologise. He can't bear to hear the sound of it from his own lips. He should have done something with the gun. He should have done fucking anything, anything but bring it back into their home, into their lives.
"I'm going to bed," Amy says, and it's a shock the way all the energy has left her voice, like it's been sucked out, nothing but exhaustion and a crushing sense of disappointment there now.
"Okay." He's so quiet that he doubts she hears him. She pads out of the room as softly as a child, overlarge dressing gown swamping her, and she switches off the light so that he's plunged into darkness. He sits in it a while; must be only a few seconds, not more than a minute, but his eyes adjust enough that the light from the bathroom mirror makes him squint when he brushes his teeth. He looks down at the sink, staring away from his reflection, hands gripping the basin to hold him up.
He falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, but it's not a dreamless sleep, not something that leaves his mind free. The nightmare begins the same way it always does. Its familiarity is almost comforting; he's flying but he can't fly high enough, and then he's running but he can't run fast enough, and the thing that he's trying to escape from is catching up to him, hot on his heels and unrelenting, and he's no match for it. He knows that his time is up, knows that this can't go on forever.
Then the nightmare switches, almost instantaneously. Fear grips him, makes his breathing different, more gasps than breaths now. He hasn't got his gun in the dream - his hands are the weapon, the thing that's making him strong, and he's in a forest now, tearing through it at a speed which no human could be capable of, but he is, he's capable. He's still being chased, but the stakes are higher now - Ste doesn't know how he knows this, he just does - and he's someone's prey. Something's prey. They're reaching the end now, and there's a closing in the forest that tells him that there won't be anywhere else to run. He can't fly anymore, he can't spread his wings and create distance between him and the thing that wants to kill him. He's trapped.
He turns around, faces the thing that's moving closer and closer towards him, that's making sweat gather on his brow and trickle down his armpits and back. I need to be strong. He repeats it like a mantra inside his head and forces himself to shift, to lean forward slightly, back no longer against the oak of the tree behind him. He's not going to die like this. If this is the end then he can't go out defeated; he has to go out in flames, to give everything.
He drives himself forward, barely knowing what he's doing. He's wild with it, wild with adrenaline and fear and determination, and it makes him brave, makes him look straight into the rabid's eyes as he gets closer. The eyes are blank, but they follow Ste as he circles it, tracking his every movement. It's like they're dancing round each other, seeing who's going to give in first, who's going to break and be the one to fall.
The rabid surges forward, and Ste's both surprised and ready for it: he leaps back to protect himself, then realises that there is no protecting, not from this. After a moment's hesitation he's on the rabid, all over it, hands tearing chucks out of it, grabbing at its neck and face and struggling body, anywhere that he can get access to. He's ferocious with it, clawing, digging in his nails, spitting at its face until he can hear a deep groan coming from the rabid, and he knows, he knows it's nearly over, that it's giving up, that he's overpowering it.
Still Ste fights; he knows this could all be a trick, that they're cunning even when they're out of control like this, that the rabid could be pretending. He uses all the strength he has left to put an arm around its throat, then balls his hand into a fist and slams it into the rabid's chest. It goes through layers of flesh, and his hand secures around its heart - in his nightmares, the rabids always have hearts, and breath, and skin that's a startling mixture of both hot and cold - and he rips it from the rabid's chest, the light leaving its eyes as it sinks to the floor.
Ste dusts himself off. He's bleeding, isn't sure whether it's from the rabid or from himself, and he's covered in a thick substance, almost like a solid smoke which sticks to him even when he wets his hand and rubs at the area, trying desperately to remove it. He's coughing, wheezing, and feels more thirsty than he's ever felt in his whole life, his throat raw from it.
But he's alive.
When he wakes from these particular dreams he always feels the dampness of tears on his cheeks, his heart hammering in his chest, his fingers gripping the sheets underneath him tightly enough to tear through.
Shame courses through him, white-hot and lingering, and a fear that takes hours to subside. He's not scared of nearly dying in the dream; he's scared of what he's done. The violence of it. The way he holds the rabid's heart in his hands, removed from its body, vulnerable and fragile, and his to break.
The heart doesn't seem different. It doesn't seem like it's anything but human.
::::::
He's up early. He checks that the kids are fast asleep, opening their bedroom doors and watching their small chests rise and fall, registering the way that Leah has the covers drawn up to her neck, while Lucas has them sprawled around him haphazardly. They both look tiny, alarmingly so. It weighs on him sometimes, how their life is in his hands.
He quietly makes two cups of tea in the kitchen and carries them to Amy's bedroom. He hears no reply when he knocks, but he hadn't expected to. Experience tells him that she'll fake sleeping when she's mad at him, leaving him to make the kids' breakfast and get them dressed and ready for school while she calms down, gets to a state where she can be near him without arguing again. He's not going to let it come to that, not this time. He's always stood back and let it happen, let things play out. He can't keep on relying on that. One day he might not have anything left to hold onto.
Amy's lying under the covers when he comes in, eyes closed. Ste can tell from the way her face is set that she's not sleeping; she looks too serene. He's seen her in sleep, has slept beside her, and she frowns, deep creases stretching across her forehead. Or she bites down on her lip like she's concentrating hard.
Ste takes advantage of this knowledge of her, sitting down on the bed next to her, making the mattress dip, careful not to spill the tea.
"No sugar, lots of milk." He waits, and after a moment's pause she lets out an elongated sigh, sitting up reluctantly against the headboard. She seems to be refusing to look at him as she takes the mug from his hands, and there's no thank you.
"Kids up yet?" Her throat sounds sore, congested.
"No. Don't worry, I'll sort everything out when they are."
"Just don't give them any of that sugary crap that pretends to be cereal, alright? They were bouncing off the walls yesterday."
"I wasn't going to. I'll make them some toast or cereal or something. Different cereal," he adds when Amy throws him a glance out of the corner of her eye. "Come on. Give me a break. I'm trying."
It's always a struggle to get them to eat anything in the mornings, and he'd been trying to give them a reason to get out of bed, to see clean bowls at the end of it.
"That's the thing, Ste. You always try, but you never actually do anything, do you?"
It knocks the breath out of him. He slumps in on himself, drawing the covers up with his free hand and holding his tea with the other, taking sips from it. It's still too hot and it burns the roof of his mouth, but he winces through it and continues, needing something to do with his hands. Maybe Amy realises she's gone too far, because Ste feels her elbow against his, the lightest touch but it's something, some form of closeness, and her voice is softer when she speaks again.
"I got my hopes up." It sounds like she's telling him a secret, something that's being torn from her. "When you told me that you were going to get rid of the gun, I hoped..."
"I know. I hoped too."
"See." She turns to him, and she's grabbed his arm like she thinks she can convince him, can make him understand if she just keeps hold of him. "Even you see how wrong this is."
"Amy..." He can't get into all this again. They've been through it too many times, and there's only ever been one resolution: he continues what he's doing, what he's always done, because for him there is no other option.
"Just tell them. Just tell them it's all over."
"It's not that simple."
She knows it's not, like she's always known.
"I can't just tell Warren to fuck off, that I'm done with it all. They'll see me as a traitor, that I'm switching sides."
"Who cares? They're idiots, Ste. They're no one."
"You know what'll happen if I leave."
"They can't touch us. They wouldn't hurt us. They wouldn't. We're... we're human."
"We are, but..." He tries to word this as delicately as he can, can see the alarm growing within her. "You know they'd look for a weak spot. They'd dig around, try and find something. Ames, they'd... they'd find out about your sister."
Amy's still holding onto his arm; her grip tightens, her nails digging in enough to hurt.
"They couldn't know. She's... she uses the cover up every day. Every time I go round there she's got it on."
"Do you really think they can't see through that?" Ste brings her closer, bringing her into his warmth, arm wrapped around her. "They know how to find out things. They've been doing this for years, longer than I have. They're not going to be fooled by a layer of cover up mousse and some contact lenses. They'll know that Sarah's... you know... one of them. They'll find out about the accident, about the funeral, and they'll know that she's..."
"Dead."
::::::
It's rare that he has the whole flat to himself. He's used to it being filled with the noise and life of the kids, or the sound of Amy watching television or talking loudly on the phone to one of her friends.
This stillness, this silence, it's almost disturbing.
He puts the radio on loudly while he does the dishes, making everything tidy for when Leah, Lucas and Amy come home. He'd told Amy to promise that she'd let him know when she arrives safely to her dad's place, and after an hour of him being alone his phone vibrates, her telling him that they're all okay.
He can breathe easier now.
He knows why she's gone. After the talk of Sarah she'd been desperate to get away, to see her sister and her dad. He tries to enjoy the peace. He considers ordering a pizza for lunch, to make a proper thing of it, but he's too hungry to wait for it to be delivered, and he raids the cupboards instead, piling anything that's edible onto a plate and eating while the television acts as background noise.
He's alone for less than two hours before he starts to feel it creeping up on him, that loneliness, that nagging sense that he needs to talk to someone, that he can't be left like this, his own thoughts the only thing to fill the space.
He remembers why he's been avoiding this, why he always occupies his time with the kids and Amy, with being part of the Human Volunteer Force. There's always a schedule, always a job, always something that needs doing. He's forgotten how to do this, how to just be.
He's forgotten what it's like to be a normal person.
He leaves his dirty plates in the sink, grabbing his computer and curling up with it on his knees on the sofa. It's been so long since he went on the site that he'd forget what it's called if it wasn't saved in his bookmarks; even so it takes him a while to find it, and when he does a hundred memories come flooding back: Amy teasing him one night, egging him on until he'd joined, watching him while he created a profile and uploaded a picture. She'd helped him to fill out the various boxes. It had been easy at first - name, age, location, job - but then he'd had to put some details about himself, about what he liked, about who he was, and what should have been simple seemed impossible. He didn't know what would impress a person, what would sound good on paper.
Staring at the photo he'd chosen, he wonders what he'd been thinking. It's an old one, back when he'd had a fringe, one long enough so that someone could have swept it back with their fingers, tucked it behind his ear. He hates it, can't believe that Amy had allowed him to walk around like that. No wonder the only action he's had in the last few years is a drunken fumble with a blond called Rae, sharing a kebab with her the next morning before a series of uncomfortable dates (and fucks) that hadn't gone anywhere serious.
He's a fucking disaster.
He changes the photo, taking his time to choose. He wants one where he's smiling - his straight faced ones all tend to look like mug shots - and something that hides his body as much as possible. He's already marked his body type down as slim, but he doesn't need something that draws attention to that fact even more.
He considers putting up a photo that shows him with an old friend, a guy called Justin who he'd known years ago, but there's one problem: Justin had always been popular with girls, far more than him, and what if someone thinks that's him and only gets in touch because they're expecting someone blond, someone more muscular than he is?
In the end he settles for a photo of him smiling, close lipped, and leaning against the wall - one of the only walls in the flat that isn't covered in pictures the kids had done - in his leather jacket. It's a bit try hard, he reckons, and he doesn't know if he can pull off leather, but his hair's decent enough, and he's still got a hint of a tan from that summer. He waits for it to upload, nibbling his nails as the screen slowly changes to the new picture, and he presses save.
He's about to shut down the computer when he stops, hovering the cursor over the screen. He looks behind his shoulder; it's pointless doing it, he knows that he's still the only one in the flat, but he makes sure that there's silence before he continues.
He can't see his competition, can't see all the other men that he's up against. It's part of his settings - he's selected interested in women, so that's all he can see. He wants to know, wants to find out if he even stands a chance or if he should delete his profile entirely, admitting defeat. He's barely heard anything back anyway; his inbox remains embarrassingly empty, only ever filled with invitations to group social events billed as an amazing opportunity to meet new people. The idea of it makes him feel queasy.
He clicks it in a rush, changing his settings at lightning speed: interested in men and women. There's no harm done. No one will ever know.
Ste draws the laptop closer to him, the heat from it warming his legs. His mouth feels dry and he wets his lips with his tongue as he scans the page, eyes struggling to take everything in all at once, scrolling frantically down until everything becomes a blur.
He forces himself to stop, to concentrate. Calm down. Take this in. Stop being a prick.
He takes a breath, goes slower this time and looks at the faces, properly looks. He was right to choose a photo of himself smiling - some of the guys look like potential serial killers, others like they haven't seen daylight in ten years. He feels a stab of pity for them, dressed in mismatched clothes and desperately trying to sell themselves in their profiles.
But there are others. He lingers on their profiles, reading everything they've written, searching through their photos, leaving them on the screen for several minutes before moving on.
One catches his eye.
Callum. Twenty eight. Interested in men. Likes: travelling, going to the cinema, eating out, sport.
He's got dark brown hair and stubble, with broad shoulders and blue eyes. He's a builder, works on a construction site a few miles from here. Message me if you want to talk, he's written, and there's a winky face after it.
Beside his profile is a woman with blond hair, her breasts protruding to the camera, her mouth covered in a thick, bright layer of lipstick.
Veronica. Thirty. Interested in men. Likes: keeping fit, meals out, animals, dancing.
Ste clicks on her profile, starts to write a message. Nothing too forward, nothing that'll scare her off and make his message sit in her inbox unanswered.
Hi. I'm Ste. You look nice...
He considers briefly whether the dots make him look like a pervert, then deletes them when he decides they do.
He's about to press send when he minimises the window and brings Callum's profile up again.
Message me if you want to talk.
Ste types hurriedly before he can lose his nerve.
Hi. I'm Ste. Thought your profile looked good.
He deletes it, starts again.
Alright? How are you?
Too bland. Too like everything this guy's probably received a thousand times before. Deleted again.
Hiya!
Fucking hell. Deleted.
Hi. I'm sort of new to all this...
He sounds like an inexperienced virgin, a deer caught in the headlights. Deleted.
I think I might be bisexual.
Deleted.
I think I might be gay.
Deleted.
He closes the screen, turns off the computer and goes to bed.
::::::
He's woken by the sound of his phone buzzing. He knew he should have switched it off in the night.
Flinging his covers aside, he snatches up his phone and looks at the caller display.
Warren.
He strongly considers pressing ignore and going back to sleep, but he knows he'll pay the price if he does.
"Hello?" He makes sure he sounds as alert as possible, not wanting to give away that he was deep in sleep moments before. He listens as Warren greets him as he always does: calls him Ratboy like he's snarling it down the line.
"What's going on?" He knows there's something, always some task or patrol to go to.
"You're needed."
Ste can hear the background noise. It sounds like Warren's in the pub with the rest of the volunteer force already.
"Can it wait a bit? I need a shower." He smells his t-shirt; he definitely needs a shower.
"No it can't wait," Warren says, like Ste's suggested something terrible. "Meet us at the pub in ten minutes, alright?"
"Ten minutes? Warren, I can't even get from my flat to the village in ten minutes - "
The line goes dead before Ste can continue arguing.
"Fuck sake." He gets out of bed and rushes to the bathroom. He can hear the sound of the kids floating down the hall, knows that they must be having breakfast. He shuts the bathroom door behind him and looks in the mirror, taking in his bed-messed hair and the dark rings around his eyes. He must have drooled in the night; his salvia has crusted around his mouth. He wipes it away hastily then grabs the deodorant, spraying it everywhere before brushing his teeth, trying to combine it with making his hair more presentable.
He almost falls over when running around the kitchen, grabbing a piece of toast that's just popped up.
"That's mine," Amy says, but she makes no attempt to get it off him, seems to know that any confrontation's best avoided this morning. "Let me guess - Warren?"
Ste kisses her cheek, strokes the kids' hair.
"I won't be long."
"That's what you always say."
"Come on, Amy. Don't be like a nagging wife."
She shoots him a look, but glances at the kids and doesn't pursue it. Ste mouths I'm sorry before leaving through the front door, half the slice of toast still hanging out of his mouth.
He breaks into a sprint when he's out of the house, clutching his side and ignoring the stitch that soon starts to form. He ignores the curious looks of the people he passes, and by the time he reaches the pub he's red faced and panting. He has no time to recover. He's already half an hour later than Warren had expected, and it earns him a slap around the head when he greets the group and takes his seat.
He rubs at his head, grumbling under his breath. He hadn't expected a round of applause at killing the rabid, but he'd expected something.
"Glad that you could all finally join us," Warren begins, eyes not leaving Ste. "Really generous of you."
"I said I was sorry." Ste crosses his arms, slumping into his seat, bottom lip jutting out. "What's this about anyway? Since when do we have meetings on a Sunday? It's meant to be like... you know, a day of... rest. God's day and all that."
The entire group seem to look at him.
"What?" He mumbles, self conscious now.
"When was the last time you went to church?" Warren asks.
"That's not... that's not the point, is it?"
"No, come on, when was it? Last week? Last month? Last year? Never in your life?"
Ste buries himself deeper into his chair, half the height of Warren now. His silence sounds like defeat.
Warren continues, facing away from him now. He doesn't look at him even as he addresses him.
"Ste, I introduced a new member while you weren't here."
"Right." He's used to getting new members, people who leave just as quickly as they join. They think it'll be something fun, something glamorous, something exciting. Getting a gun, playing hero for a day. When they realise the long hours and the death risk that's involved they soon try and wrangle their way out of the agreement. The few that stay longer than a couple of weeks later lose their nerve when faced with their first real rabid.
"He's just moved here," Warren says.
That surprises Ste. Chester isn't a town that people move to. Leave from, yes - plenty of people have left over the years, on the basis of getting a better life. More like getting the hell out of this fucking town, as far away as possible. Ste would do the same if he could afford anywhere else.
Ste looks over at where Warren's nodding his head to. He sees a man sitting beside Tony, must be in his late thirties, his hair beginning to thin the smallest amount. He's dressed in a suit, and when Ste smiles at him he doesn't smile back.
"This is Danny Houston."
All the group look over to him. Danny's expression remains cold.
Pleasantries over, Warren gets to the point.
"There's been a reported sighting. We've cornered the..." Warren stops, gestures with his hands, seems to be searching for the appropriate word. "Thing," he settles for, applying the most disgust to it that he can. "We've got it locked in the treatment centre."
There's a hum of appreciation and Warren looks smug, like he'd been planning for this moment.
"We're going to make sure it's learnt its lesson."
"How?" Ste asks.
"I'm sure you can think of something."
"Me?" Ste's voice comes out high pitched. He clears it, noticing the corners of Danny's mouth twitch. "What do you mean, me?"
"This one's all yours, Hay."
"What?"
"Last one was Darren's. This one's yours." Warren places a hand on Ste's shoulder, the pressure strong. "You deserve it."
Ste looks across at Tony imploringly. Help me.
Tony opens his mouth, mumbles Warren but he's one step ahead of him, already has a hand up to silence him.
"You've got your gun, haven't you?" Warren says, and he's not trying to hide his smile now.
"Yeah." Ste can't pretend he's forgotten it at home; it's digging into his hip, a reminder now of what he's expected to do.
"Good. Then let's go."
::::::
The treatment centre is a short distance from the hospital, almost attached to the grounds. They walk there, and Ste's grateful for the open air and the chance to put some distance between himself and Warren. He's not sure he could face being squeezed inside a car with him, forced to either make small talk or be met with an uncomfortable silence.
They say little as they make their way there. Ste had expected the rest of the group to tag along, but Warren had said this was a two man venture.
"What's that Danny Houston like then?" Ste says. If he can concentrate on this, on anything but what's waiting for him at the treatment centre, then maybe his fear will subside.
"What's it to you?"
"Just wondering." He wishes it didn't always have to be like this, so strained and difficult, no question simply answered.
"You'll find out for yourself."
There's an edge to Warren's voice that Ste doesn't like.
When they've arrived, Warren holds open the door for Ste to step into the centre first. It's not out of kindness or curtsey; he's not being a gentleman. He stares at Ste like he knows he's in danger of bottling it, and it makes Ste more determined. He'd been slumping on the walk here, trawling his feet along the pavement, but now he draws himself up to full height and walks into the building.
The quietness takes on an eery quality. The place is usually bustling with doctors and other members of staff, and there's nearly always a receptionist present. But there seems to be no one here today - a result of it being the weekend, Ste assumes - and the door creaks loudly as it swings shut behind them.
For a moment he wonders if Warren's brought him here for another reason. He knows Ste's got his gun on him, but Warren has the advantage here - bigger, stronger, more prepared for whatever's about to happen. Suddenly Ste doesn't like the distance between them, and he takes a few steps forward so that they're almost side by side, where he can see Warren properly now.
"Warren..." He begins, and there's a shake to his voice that he worries will betray him.
Warren ignores him, nodding towards the room in front of them with a closed door, one of the doctor's offices. "In there."
"Are you... are you coming with me?"
Warren stares at him incredulously, then grabs Ste's arm and pulls him forward, throwing open the door.
He's been in this room before. It's one of the larger offices in the treatment centre. There aren't any curtains; instead the windows are boarded up, the only light coming from the cracked bulb hanging on the ceiling. Warren turns the light switch on so that they can see better, but Ste's already taken in the room, already knows what's inside.
There's a cage, small enough to fit in the room, large enough to hold a person. No, not a person - a thing.
They've disturbed it. It's pressed against the front of the cage, staring at them, watching what they'll do next. Its mouth is set into a hard line, its eyes large and dark, its hair sticking up at odd angles. It's dressed in a black suit, but the shirt seems too small, the buttons looking like they're set to burst. It has a bruise under its right eye, and the most distinctive moustache Ste's ever seen.
Ste looks at Warren. "What am I meant to do?"
"I want you to play with it."
"Play with it?"
Warren grins. "Torture it, Ste. Kill it. Do whatever the fuck you want."