Part 2
The dog was barking again. Carson was sure it would have died by now, but each night as the sun dipped hauntingly over the city's sky-reaching spires, the damn thing started up once more. There were times he wished to the damned Emperor for it to die, or escape out of its hab above him. But, the hound bayed continually, drawing more of the beasts to it.
Carson had barricaded himself into a hab-unit, ten stories up, around a week ago. He wasn't too sure of the actual length of time due the sleep deprivation he had been suffering. Luckily though, he had found a place with a decent supply of food and water – and alcohol.
A brittle moaning sound, and then scraping and scratching on the hab door interrupted his thoughts. The freezer unit and plastek chairs blocking it shook ever so slightly as he cast his hand light over them. So, it begins again, he thought.
He turned away from the kitchen and groggily walked into the front room, admit more frantic barking from his upstairs neighbour. He had grown sick of the small room, with its old soft settee and single, plastek table. And, of course, the large, wide window that looked out into the city. Most of the furniture now blocked the front entrance and the table was covered with empty bottles of Glavian wine. The machine spirits powering the hab block had fled several days ago, and an eerie darkness stole the city sights, giving Carson mixed feelings – he was glad he could not see the bleak remains of Tharius, but his basic human fear of darkness smouldered in the back of his mind. In the distance, through the scores of buildings, fires continued to burn and he could see pinpricks of light – not all the power had gone. Each night, more of the fires burnt out, and he could see less lights. It was as if a diseased tsunami had blanketed the world and was slowly consuming the final sparks of civilisation – and hope.
An undulating wail echoed through the hab, followed by frenzied barking. Carson heard wild thumping from above, and a final yelp of a dog.
Then silence.
So, the poor beast had finally been found. For some reason, Carson was suddenly angry. He gripped his gun, his knuckles turning white and he moved back into the kitchen, and confronted the barricaded door. It stood still and the moaning sounds had ceased. They knew there had been a kill and were joining the feast, he thought.
The anger drilled deeper into him, and he was starting to realise why – the dog was another survivor, another being alive in a graveyard city, and its nightly barking had given him some form of companionship. Even that had been taken away from him.
For a moment, he thought of tearing open his makeshift barricade and avenging the poor dog, but the futility of the gesture hit him like a falling mountain – What was the point? He would achieve only death.
The anger faded as fast as it appeared, replaced with the all-consuming feeling of helplessness that seemed to sit heavily upon his shoulders. He let go of his weapon, deciding to find some food.
A few moments later, he realised he had finished the final, mouldering scraps the night before. In frustration he strode back into the front room and to the drinks cabinet, deciding to drink this reality into another.
*
He awoke to roaring.
It was still night, and as he struggled awake an empty wine bottle bounced onto the floor. The roaring continued, and his fuddled mind vibrated with confusion – what the hell was going on?
His head throbbed from the wine, his sight was blurred and his mouth dry. Suddenly, an intensely bright light flashed briefly in through the hab window, and the deafening sound increased in volume, before slowly quietening. Carson ran to the window, realising what he was hearing: thrusters.
He hastily rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and his heart thumped in his chest. Someone was outside in a flyer, someone else was alive! He saw the blurred outline of a small orbital lander – he couldn't see what make it was, but it didn't matter, he was not alone!
Unfortunately, the lander was edging away on its hover-thrusters. It looked as if it was searching the street, its lights shining over the roadways and buildings, twin beams of light in eternal darkness. Every now and then, Carson could see figures being lit up by the lights, as they shambled throughout the city, like small swarms of insects. The population of Tharius, walking aimlessly throughout the streets, looking for their next meal.
Carson turned from the scene, trying to find his own light in the soupy blackness of the hab. He swore as he tripped over a collection of wine bottles, then he dropped to his knees, his hands searching wildly for the light. Seconds later he found it, hastily switched it on and ran over to the window. The thruster sounds were diminishing and he panicked – what if he had just missed his chance of being rescued?
He waved the light out toward the lander and futilely banged on the window. 'Come back!' he cried, 'I'm here!'
Slowly, the roaring died down to a whisper and the lights vanished into the night as the ship turned away into another part of the city, taking Carson's hope with it.
Then there was another sound. Not a roaring of engines, but the dry sound coming from a ruined human throat. Suddenly, there was a thumping noise from the kitchen area and entrance to the hab. They must have heard him shout. Damn it, Carson thought, what have I done? They followed the sounds of the living, and he had just given away his hiding area once more to the things outside. Every blasted one of them in the tight corridors out-with the hab would be moving towards him. Maybe this time the door would not hold.
Just as the chance he would not die here was presented, it had been stripped away and replaced with the cold reality of impending death. Without thinking, he cried out and snatched up one of the bottles and threw it viciously at the window. It hit with a violent crash, breaking into pieces and leaving a precarious crack throughout the pane.
With a crunching snap, something gave way in the hab entrance, and he heard his barricade scrape along the floor. He had ran out of time, and the plague ridden citizens that were dead, but not dead, had come for him.
He pulled out his stub pistol and checked it was ready to fire without looking, and with practiced ease – it was still too dark anyway to see clearly – and shone his small light at the door to the front room, preparing to meet his death.
