The Empty Ones

Chapter Three- World Gone Bad

Some ran across the street like animals, others just walked calmly along, as if they were out for a morning stroll. A woman in a nightgown ran down the sidewalk, not screaming, this was something more than screaming. This was pure, raw screeching. A man in striped pyjamas with a hand curled around a baseball bat followed her, that familiar goofy smile plastered across his face. Squeals ripped through the air, and a car skidded across the road, smashing into a fence with the roar of a cannon. It sputtered miserably. Fat smoke billowed free. One of them started to sing. A lonely pram sat in the middle of the road. The infant struggled with his straps. His black eyes glanced around greedily. They- the things, the things with the eyes- threw whatever they could find, bricks, stones, fists, at the houses, clawed their way inside. The screaming began.

Through the fog in his head, Harriat managed to say, "Underpass." And that seemed good. Yes, the underpass. That seemed like a good idea.

"What?" spotty whispered.

He grabbed him, pulled him back. They ran, and the screams followed them, melting into one another until they were just on long, uneven note of pain and terror. Up ahead, the underpass loomed into view. It towered above them, wilting vines scrambling up the dirty bricks and onto the bridge above. The mouth swallowed them into darkness.

"They're everywhere," spotty whispered. Harriat couldn't see him. He couldn't see himself, either. Maybe he wasn't really there. Ha-ha, that was a funny thought.

"They're freaking everywhere," moaned spotty. "What the hell are they?"

Something caught in Harriat's throat. He tried to cough it out. Sobbed.

They emerged in a sleepy street, the blinds in the houses still drawn, pavements empty. Quiet.

Spotty grabbed his arm. "Why don't you talk?!" he yelled. Silent tears streaked down his face.

Harriat opened his mouth. Closed it.

"Say something!"

"Police," he said.

"What?"

"Police. They- we have to- police."

Spotty laughed, a wild, manic laugh. "Were you paying attention back there? People are dying. What the hell are the police gonna do?!" He dragged a hand across his mouth and made a strangled sound. "Holy crap, we're dead. We're freaking dead. We're-"

A gunshot went off. The car squealed to a halt. Spotty fell to the ground. Awkwardly. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The door opened, and a smiling man stepped out.

"Sorry about that," he said, empty eyes glinting. He wore a sweater vest and a little golden badge that read 'Employee of the Month.' "Made a bit of a mess, didn't I?" He gave what could only be described as a giggle, held his hand out. "Alan."

Harriat looked at the hand. Then at Alan. He took a step back. Tripped.

Alan clicked his tongue. "Well, that's a bit rude."

Harriat ran.

The more he ran, the more the distant screams became less and less muffled, and it was only when they were the orchestra's final note that he saw the apartment block. He tore up the steps, into the lobby with its boring walls and boring floors. He stumbled to the ground. Threw up. He heaved himself up, saw the blood. Freckled across the tiles, a breadcrumb trail leading to the back room.

He followed them, inched the door open.

He could only see the soles of the Patrick's shoes and the swell of his belly.  The halo of blood around his head. She stood of him, gazing almost fondly. She looked up. Grinned.