WebWorld (1.13)

Well, I guess you know this is not the story of how I was jumped and killed – and eaten – by some gum-horror leaping out of the web. It was close though. And I think I cashed in one life out of nine.

What did it look like?

How couldn’t you know what they were?

But look, it was pitch black. It was absolutely dark. I could literally see almost nothing. All I knew was the weight of being hit and thrown backwards, a smell that reminded me of heated iron, the touch of something that felt like hair, but was sharp underneath. And the heat against my cheek that felt like laboured breath.

I was knocked backwards anyway by the impact, went rolling across the road, and came to rest against a wall, face down on asphalt. There was that split second of paralysis when you’re just trying to get your bearings, tell up from down, left from right; and then the memory that something is advancing on you. And that something was nothing more distinct than a lump of different-shaded darkness. It made almost no sound, just a rapid patter like footsteps.

I make it sound as if there were tens of seconds involved, but I don’t think there were. I think there were two or three at most. Enough time to brace my palms against the ground, shove myself to my knees and grab the kitchen-knife in a backhanded grip, before the shape was right on me, and I was slashing with the knife, not sure what I was slashing at. I felt the blade snag into flesh or gum or something. And I imagined a creature, some sort of Shambling Mound-style horror, all gum joined together, twisted and layered into something lifelike.

And I suppose by the fact that I wasn’t hit or bitten or slammed against the wall, that my knife had had some effect. The silhouette was still in front of me, and I threw a punch with my other hand at what seemed to be its head. The punch landed – wiry, frizzy, warm. The surface a mix of sponginess with a robust, solid core.

“Fuck off!” I screamed at it. I roared. I could feel the vibrations of my own voice running through my bones. I tried to carry myself forward with this manufactured fury, tried to make it smell that instead of smelling just raw, alkaline fear.

It lunged.

I went back against the wall. I felt my head bounce against brick. It had the weight and power of a large-to-very-large man. I could hear the rapid-fire of something striking the wall all around me. Something pinned my shoulders. Hot sticky breath misted against my cheek. I stabbed wildly, stabbed whatever might be in front of me, and felt the knife bury to its hilt.

I should have been calling for Zara the whole time, looking for her; but I could barely think or scream beyond the immediate survival duel. And then, there she was. A soft night-shadow; but she’d slipped her pack off her back and was now bludgeoning my attacker with the full weight of it – canned goods and all.

That was enough to drop it to the ground. And in that moment of respite there was just enough light to warn us that there was other movement out there.

“Nate!” Zara was reaching for me.

“I’m fine.” Probably.

“What the-”

“Dunno. Pick up the pack.”

She hefted it onto one shoulder, then the other.

“You can see them, right?”

She was eye to eye with me, she only needed to nod.

“Count of three?”

Another sharp, hard nod.

I held my fingers up for the silent countdown, the other hand on her arm. When the last finger fell, we ran like all hell, and kept running, until our legs were ready to give way under us.

#

The collapse point was overlooking a park, which had been relatively lightly touched. You could see the shape of all the swings and slides. There was forest on the other side, which also seemed to attract less gum than things man-made.

Zara’s legs buckled under her as we ran alongside that park, and with next to no strength in my own, I had nothing left to keep me from going down alongside her.

Zara rolled to her side, then to her knees, panting, gasping: “Sorry, sorry.”

I sat up, the straps falling half off my shoulders, and took that moment to look around. It wasn’t quite as very-dark as it had been in the valley, but the darkness was still thick and unhelpful. I could see the road and footpath, I could see the broad pattern of trees, and the vague outlines of playground; a flattish silhouette of roofs against sky. But really, nothing else. But I at least couldn’t see movement, and nothing came leaping out at me. The darkness at least stayed still.

Zara was on her hands and knees, looking around as well. “I can’t see anything.”

“Me neither. I think we got away.”

“Well, don’t fucking say that out loud!”

I barked a laugh, a sound she startled out of me.

“What?”

“Just… you…”

“Me. I don’t think I even know what’s going to come out of my mouth right now until it’s already out there. Nate, what was it?  I mean, I didn’t get a good look, and I really want to tell myself it was just a very large dog. But it wasn’t. All I could see was the outlines, but it looked… I don’t know… I don’t… a yeti with too many arms… and the wrong shaped head…”

“That’s more than I saw clearly.”

“I didn’t say clearly.”

“Its breath stank. I think it had teeth and claws.”

“There were at least ten of them.”

“’bout right. We’d be dead if they’d attacked us all at once.”

She heaved and rebalanced herself into a seated position beside me. “So, we’re alive because they don’t play well with others.”

“Looks like.” And I wanted to compete with the light humour, since it was keeping us something a little further away from panic, but I just felt as if I was running on empty.

Zara asked me, “Do you think you’re hurt?”

“Not really. Not badly.” My head was beginning to hurt, but that burgeoning concussion was a problem for sometime later. And I asked her “You still up for this?”

“Because what? We have another option?”

“Yeah, good point.”

“We’ve come too far. We’d likely never make it back into town. And honestly, here’s better.”

“Camp Foggerty’s better still. I hope.”

Zara used me as leverage to get herself back up onto her feet. “Maybe so. But even if not, staying with Duncan might be safer than where we were.”

If he’s alive. If nobody else…

No point in finishing that thought.

“Let’s do this,” I was trying for an aura of confidence I wasn’t sure I felt. There were a couple of hours of walking still left, and I wasn’t sure what was between us and Duncan’s.

#

I’m not saying we didn’t get lucky. We must have done. Because we walked through a world that was mostly eerie silence, only occasionally interrupted by a small sound or movement. But the dark stayed close, stayed threatening, always pretending to hold a new horror, a danger just metres away but invisible.

But then we were standing, looking down a cul-de-sac. Everett Street. It was gummed, but not too badly, and there were lights on it some houses. I noticed as we worked our way down the street that Duncan’s wasn’t one of them, and I felt gathering unease as we approached. It’d been years. We hadn’t known each other well. I didn’t even know if he still lived there. And it must be around midnight. I held my fingers against the glass for a moment before summoning up that breath and knocking gently.

There was no answer.

“We could wait…” Zara ventured.

I knocked again. A little more insistent.

Nothing. No sounds at all. Hadn’t Duncan had a dog?

I remembered something else. Getting to his place for a study session, and standing with my hands in my pockets while he reached into the base of a hanging lamp and retrieved the front door key. The lamp was still there. It did feel wrong – undeniable breaking and entering. But I fiddled with the lamp all the same, wrenching the bottom off and hearing the key fall to the wooden veranda. “Sorry, Duncan,” I muttered as I turned it in the lock and felt the door open.

Me and Zara exchanged glances, feeling like uninvited vampires.

“Is he the sort of guy who’d booby-trap his house?”

“Not usually.”

Did I really think that we were going to walk in there to have a fire-extinguisher or a rack of securely mounted knives coming hurtling through the hall at us? I probably didn’t. But there was still that trepidation as we stepped across the threshold, and onto the quiet of thick carpet.

The power was still on here. And the house didn’t look to be trashed. I flicked down all the light switches I could find and watched the interior illuminate. An ordinary hallway with nice wallpaper, leading to five closed wooden doors. I couldn’t really remember the layout, so I tried the door closest to me. Lounge. Empty. But neatly set out, tidy enough, a few books on tables, a TV unbroken, cupboards closed neatly.

The next door led to a bathroom. The next to an empty bedroom. A kitchen. Another bedroom. There was no sign of life, but no sign of struggle either.

“Maybe he got ahead of your idea and he’s already gone?”

“Maybe,” I said. It troubled me that there was this flicker of hope in her voice. As if she was thinking, well, then we could just stay here, get to know the neighbours, search for food, see what’s in the cupboards. Duncan had a nice house and the outer suburbs didn’t look as if they’d been hit with the same ten-tonne truck the inner city had.

It’s not like I blamed her for where her thoughts were going. Soft rugs, made beds, a DVD library. Temptation in spades. But this wasn’t far enough. I was sure of it.

There were stairs at the end of the hallway. Only one way to find out.

We waited that long half-second for the light to flicker on, half braced ourselves to find the garage crawling with still-anonymous but ravenous, furious beasts. We found only Duncan’s truck. In good condition. Fuelled up. I wasn’t sure if I should feel elated or not. Had I shared some of Zara’s secret hope that maybe we didn’t need to go any further than this?

She was running her fingers through my hair. “There’s blood,” she said.

“Much?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hey, I won’t make you do this.”

She gave me that look, like: Oh, do you think you could?

“Seriously.”

She shook her head, “No, I’m good, I’m ready.”

And it was such a nice damn house too. I hadn’t really remembered that about it, but it was. All plush and middle class. I don’t remember wondering at the time how he’d managed to get himself set up like this, but I suppose I must have done. And I wondered about Duncan himself. Was he still out there, alive? Where’d he gone without his car?

And we raided his place. It felt dirty. And I kept thinking about how he might come home and find himself cleaned out, and never think to blame an old acquaintance. I kept thinking about the line we’d drawn with Mikey’s place that we weren’t quite drawing here, and in the end hadn’t quite drawn with Mikey. And I told myself that it was Zara who mattered now. In a world where we might not have anything left except each other, we had a duty to keep each other alive, to survive side by side. You can justify all kinds of things if you tell yourself you’re doing it for love.

Zara said, “we shouldn’t take everything.” We were unashamedly going through his pantry.

“No. Just… half. Just every second item.”

There was nothing perishable – like he’d left in an organised and voluntary way. But to where? Why? There was cereal, canned food, chocolate, crackers, iced cookies. We sorted it all – one for him, one for us – and packed our share into the truck.

“I’m going to write him a note,” I told her.

“Like a confession?”

“Mixed with a thank you. And where we’re going.”

“He won’t have a car to follow.”

“No. I know. But there might be somebody else, or another way.” Or anyone might see this note, and they might be good or bad, much needed assistance or a dangerous threat. The world was being re-written. Or it probably was. We’d lost sight of the world. What was left in it. If chaos like this was all over and everywhere.

“Okay,” said Zara scanning for a pen.

And I wrote – in pink pen on steely-granite notepaper:

Duncan,

I don’t know if you remember me, Nathan Anderson. From study group, four years ago. I guess you know that everything’s gone to shit. We got out of the CBD, where things are very, very fucked, and we’re heading to Camp Foggerty, just north of Weevern. I came here because you lived in the hills, a bit out of town, and you know me a little, and I remembered your vehicle. And yeah, I’ve taken it. I know that’s shitty, but these are shitty times. I hoped you’d be here, and I hoped we’d all go. I’m sorry about the cupboard raid; and the wardrobe-raid as well, I suppose. I hope you’re alive out there. I think a lot of people might not be.

Nate.

And Zara, my girl, who’s with me. I hope that makes it seem to make more sense.

I stuck that to the fridge with a magnet.

“Do you think he’s alive?”

I shrugged.

“How many do you think, all dead, in the world?”

Another shrug. “Millions.”

“Billions?”

“Maybe. Or maybe not so bad. I don’t know. I just hope Duncan…”

“Yeah. We owe him big time.”

“Buying him a beer won’t cut it.”

“Giving him his truck back though…” She gave me her own crooked shrug. “Hey, maybe we’ll get the chance, right? When it all blows over?”

Did we really believe it would? Or could we not even imagine it not doing so? Were we running too early, or too late? A long drive ahead and my head was thick with a mostly emotional exhaustion.

“I’ll drive first,” Zara said, “I’m not sure about your head.”

The garage door opened on such a quiet, winter-like scene. The lights illuminated a garden that looked deceptively as if it were covered in nothing more than a thick frost or light snowfall. But there were vine-like growths that ran along the ground, looking like ropes and vines. There were engulfed shrubs, and an engulfed birdbath. And that birdbath seemed to shiver, to waver a little in the stillness, sort of like it had seen us, was acknowledging us, preparing itself to strike. No, this wasn’t too early. There was stuff out there that was going to engulf the city, close in on it and then smother it. Zara pressed her foot down, testing the engine, and then we glided, rumbling, down the driveway and towards the highway.

Camp Foggerty, here we come.

 

Picture Credit/discredit: author's own work