The whining of the printing machine did nothing to dull Duncan Cart's throbbing headache, and his headache did nothing to dampen his mood. His bagged eyes stared dully at the cursor blinking into and out of existence in the computer monitor in front of him. A twitch tugged at his jaw muscles, and to his ears the printer's screeching began to take on a voice of its own, to match the one in his head.
Your fault... Your fault... Your fault...
A hand on his shoulder and a voice behind him snapped Duncan back to the moment. "Hey, Dunc... You doing okay?"
Blinking, Duncan turned around in his chair to see who it was. The low, friendly voice belonged to Martin Keyes, a small, balding, bespectacled man in his late 30s with the awkward kind of smile that made it clear he wasn't used to socialising. He was also one of the few people Duncan counted as a friend.
Martin withdrew his hand and continued, "I was wondering if, uh, you wanted a quick coffee break? You look like you could use it."
Duncan ran a hand through his short dark hair and turned back to look at the report he'd been working on. It stared back, half finished, forgotten. Memos by his co – workers about work they needed him to do were posted all around the walls of his booth, and it seemed to Duncan that their words, their bright colours, were closing in on him, suffocating him.
He turned back to Martin. "Sure," he said, his voice flat. "That sounds good."
Martin nodded warmly and together they set off down the rows of identical work cubicles, their owners hunched over, engrossed in their work. Most of them seemed to stiffen when Duncan passed them but a few looked up and gave small, encouraging smiles. Duncan stuffed his hands in his pockets and trained his eyes on the floor.
When they reached the break room, Martin prepared two coffees and handed one to Duncan, who, sagged on the sofa, took it without a word and stared at the steam rising from the plastic cup. The bright, artificial lights in the room made his eyes burn.
"Kowalski's sick now, too," Martin started, taking a seat opposite Duncan. "Can you believe it? The man who's never missed a day in his life gets sick now, of all times. That's four people on my team taking sick leave. This presentation's never going to get done at this rate..." Martin noticed Duncan staring at his coffee, unhearing. He stopped and leaned forward.
"Dunc... how've you been? I haven't seen you for a few days but, Christ, you're looking worse."
For a few beats, Duncan didn't say anything. Then he looking up at Martin, dark circles underlining his eyes, his hair dishevelled, stubble growing course on his face.
"His mother called again yesterday," he said, hoarsely. "She told me the funeral was tomorrow and hung up."
"Ah, jesus." Martin fiddled with the end of his jumper. "She shouldn't have done that. Look, Dunc. I know I've told you this a hundred times, but you. Have got. To stop blaming yourself." He punctuated his sentence by pointing at him.
Duncan snorted, shook his head. "Sure. Who's fault is it, then? If I'd done nothing, nobody would've been hurt."
"Or someone else could've been killed. You might have saved a lot of people."
"Who're you trying to kid? He'd got what he wanted, he was about to leave and the cops would have caught him sooner or later. It's all my fault." Duncan looked up. "Martin, I know you're trying to help, and I appreciate it. I just... I need some time."
Martin took a sip of his coffee. "Has your shrink been any help?"
"Dr Gardens? No. The guy's useless. He's a waste of money; I'm not seeing him anymore."
"If you say so." Martin sighed and put his cup down on the table between them. "Maybe you should go home. Take the rest of the day off."
"No, I've got too much to do here. Besides, Preeceman would have an aneurysm if someone else took some time off."
"Are you kidding? The bossman's only going to care about where his box is tissues is. He's been barricaded in his office all day, it sounds like he's got a bitch of a flu as well. Half the office can hear him sneezing like a foghorn." Martin adjusted his glasses. "Go on, get out of here. Get some sleep for christ's sake, you look 52, not 32."
Duncan looked over his shoulder at his reflection in the window separating them from the work office. With his slumped shoulders, loose tie and ruffled black suit he looked like some kind of movie monster. Draining his coffee, he stood up and placed an appreciative hand on Martin's shoulder.
"Yeah, maybe you're right. Thanks Martin, I owe you."
"Nah, you don't owe me anything. Except maybe a beer." Martin smiled. "Go. I'll catch you later."
As Duncan returned to his cubicle to collect his rucksack, he noticed that Mr. Preeceman's coughing had grown more prominent from behind his closed door, and that several of his work colleagues had begun to join in with accompanying coughs and sneezes of their own.
The setting winter sun bathed the city in its orange afternoon glow as Duncan walked home, his rucksack slung over one shoulder. His breath steamed in front of him, the cool air felt good against his skin. The din of life around him, of a group of girls laughing somewhere in the distance, car horns, traffic lights beeping, provided a welcome break from his thoughts. The screaming. The gun. The blood.
Turning left onto Field Avenue, he walked briskly along the block, crossed the road and suddenly found his way blocked by an old vagrant in a stained brown jacket and jeans who'd staggered out of an alleyway. His long, greasy hair and beard covered his face, but his bloodshot eyes stared through and locked onto Duncan's.
"It's the end... It's coming... It's coming..." He rasped, his voice wheezing out of him as he started limping towards Duncan.
Duncan grimaced and started to sidestep him. As he passed, the man's hand shot out and latched onto his arm, black and cracked fingernails digging into his suit.
"You can't run! You're already dead!" the vagrant barked, his sickly sweet breath causing Duncan to twist his head away in disgust.
"Get the fuck off me!" he gasped as he jerked his arm away. The man relinquished his grip and fell mute, staring at Duncan as he stumbled under his own momentum. "Crazy bastard..." he muttered as he regained his footing and started running up the street, away from the man.
The vagrant watched, motionless, as Duncan escaped up the road and turned the corner out of sight. For several moments he kept staring at the empty street, his breathing harsh and laboured. Then a single drop of blood welled in the corner of his eye. He blinked, and it trickled down his cheek, coming to rest in his beard. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his coat, and coughed.
The shortest way to Duncan's apartment was past Mercy Hospital. As he approached, a crowd gathered near the entrance drew his attention. Two police officers pushed their way through, grasping a struggling man between them. His yellow shirt was torn, and his mouth was stained with red. Beyond the crowd, a man was laid out on a stretcher, immobile, bloodied bandaging wrapped tightly around his neck. Three paramedics picked up the stretcher, and Duncan heard them speaking hurriedly to each other.
"The bite's deep... He's lost too much blood..."
"Radio ER, we've got another one!"
"What the hell's going on?! Eight attacks in one hour?!"
Duncan pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers, some of them muttering in hushed tones or excitedly taking videos with their mobile phones, as the police officers forced the struggling man into the back seat of their squad car parked opposite. As soon as the door was slammed shut, the man began pounding on the windows, screaming incomprehensibly, his face contorted in an expression of pure hatred.
"Jesus..." Duncan muttered, staring over his shoulder. He gasped as he accidently tripped on someone's foot. "Sorry!"
"Ow! Watch where you're going, jackass!" cried the person he'd stepped on, a large, tattooed man with a black vest and a shaved head. As Duncan hurried away, he heard the man keep talking to someone else in the crowd.
"You know what else I hate? Men in suits..."
The sun had almost completely disappeared from the sky by the time Duncan arrived at his apartment. He took the lift up to the fourth floor, and as he walked the short distance down the hallway to his door he realised that Mr. Oberson, the doorman, hadn't been at his usual position behind the desk in the entrance hall. Shrugging, he turned the key in his lock and sighed as the door clicked shut behind him, enveloping him in silence.
He stayed still in the darkness for a moment, leaning back against the door, his palm pressed against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. Then he shrugged off his bag and stretched to the right to flip the light switch. The bulb flicked on and revealed an apartment in disarray.
The entrance led directly into the sitting room, with a TV left on standby mode, a coffee table with a plate of half eaten pasta left on it, and a couch which was creased where he'd fallen asleep on it. To the left was his kitchen in which empty containers of instant microwave food had been left. The fridge hummed softly and a glass of water sat forgotten in front of the sink. Opposite the kitchen, the half open door to his bedroom presented a view of a rumpled bed and a T-Shirt discarded on the floor.
Duncan crossed to the sink and picked up the glass, tossing the water down the drain. Retrieving a half empty bottle of whiskey from the cabinet above, he poured himself a generous amount and crossed over to the couch, dropping down on it with another sigh. Flicking on the TV, a man's concerned voice filled the apartment.
"...have confirmed that the reports of the sudden increase in violence across the country are correct." The broadcaster stared into the camera, his brow creased with worry. "Peter Deshan is at Mercy Hospital now with some more information for us. Peter?"
The scene changed to an anxious looking man standing in a hospital corridor lined with white sheeting on either side. Sections of the sheeting were clear, and it was possible to get a small glimpse into the rooms they covered. Standing next to the reporter was a nervous looking doctor with greying hair. Occasionally, medical staff would rush past.
"Thank you, Bill," the reporter began, "Yes, the reports are absolutely correct. Ah, in fact in the hour since we've arrived here there've been over 20 patients admitted, all of them suffering from bites and scratches. And in all cases, the patients have begun to show signs of increased aggression, even going as far as to attack the doctors treating them." There was a shout off camera and the reporter jumped slightly. "Ah... the staff have had to dedicate an entire floor for these patients, and they've had to resort to strapping them down in their beds, for their safety and that of those around them."
The broadcaster's voice came through. "I've just been told there's been an important new development?"
The camera moved over to the doctor standing to the side. He cleared his throat. "Yes... it seems that among the older cases, some of the patients are, for want of a better word... mutating."
"I'm sorry, did you just say the patients are mutating?"
The reporter repeated the question to the doctor, who nodded. "Some of them are, yes. The corridor we're standing in has been reserved for these cases. Ah, over here..." He pointed to the nearest window in the sheeting and the camera moved to get a better view. "This female was brought in yesterday, and since then her spinal column seems that have increased in length. She's also producing a great deal of bile."
The doctor moved to the other side of the corridor, the reporter and camera following. "This patient, a male, was brought in this morning and since then his muscle mass has been increasing dramatically, particularly on his upper body." The doctor swallowed audibly. "I've never... seen anything like this." His pager buzzed and the doctor looked down. His eyes widened. "I'm sorry, I've got to..." He ran off screen.
The camera returned to the reporter. "Well, there you have it, Bill. I'll be sure to keep you updated." The screaming in the background had grown louder.
Suddenly the image returned to the newsroom. "Thank you, Peter. Very... disturbing news." He shuffled his papers. "On a lighter note, the Midnight Riders are due to make a comeback..."
Duncan clicked off the TV and sat in stunned silence, A police car drove down his street, the sirens blaring then fading away. Fishing out his cell phone from his jacket pocket, he found Martin's name in his phonebook and tapped out a message.
Hey, did you see the news? Weird stuff. Watch out when you leave work.
He sent it and dropped his phone on the couch beside him, downing his glass of whiskey in one. His eyelids suddenly felt too heavy to keep open. Sitting up with a grunt, he half – walked, half – staggered to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. His alarm clock glowed green in the darkness. 7:35PM. He flopped down on the bed fully clothed and stared up and the ceiling, his eyes drooping. Outside three more police vehicles roared past. His eyes closed and sleep took him.
He was woken by the sound of someone being sick outside in the hallway. He listened groggily. There was a muffled retching, a splattering sound, and then silence. Duncan was about to doze off again when something thumped against his front door, hard enough for him to feel the vibration. He jerked upright and listened intently in the pitch black. Nothing. He glanced at the clock. 2:05AM
A pained groan echoed through the apartment. "Oh shit..." he muttered. Every fibre of his being told him something was wrong. But what if someone was seriously hurt? Duncan swallowed.
He wouldn't be responsible for another person dying.
Sliding off the bed, he slipped his shoes back onto his feet and trod carefully to the bedroom door. Opening it, he had to blink in the sudden light that he'd left on in the main room. After his eyes adjusted, he crept softly to the entrance and pressed his ear against the door. Silence. Gently, he eased the door open.
The hallway was clear. Frowning, he started to step out, and brought his foot down in a puddle of milky sick just outside his door. His shoe skidded and he had to grasp the doorframe to keep himself from slipping over. "Shit!" Duncan swore in disgust, stepping over in the hallway and wiping his foot on the clean wooden floor.
A snarling sound made him start, and he looked up to follow its source, down the end of the hallway to his right. A man was stood facing him, his blue sweater smeared with sick. His skin was deathly pale, hair a greasy mess, face spattered with red. His eyes were two bloodshot pinpricks, narrowed in hatred, and they were focussed on Duncan.
"Uh... Sir, are you..." was all he had time to say. The man gave a piercing scream and charged at him. Duncan opened his mouth his surprise and turned to flee back into his apartment. His foot dragged in the puddle of sick again and his leg shot out from under him. As he desperately tried to pick himself up, a dead weight landed on his back and forced him back down to the floor.
Duncan screamed as he felt his attacker's hands tear at him.