CHAPTER FOUR – GRUESOME DEATH
Bathed in a mild heroin withdrawal sweat, Debby Heaney stood in a shadow-darkened nook in Exchange Lane, a small alleyway which paralleled Market Street. As the umbilical link between the smarter, Union Street end of Aberdeen and the older, uncommercialised harbour area with sea-dog pubs, sea-faring offices and cheap hotels, it declined downhill from Union Street down towards the harbour, leading past it towards Torry, the fishwife district south of the River Dee. Market Street itself was a curious mixture of both aspects, closing-down cheap clotheshops adjacent to busy wine bars, working-class pubs next to Wi-Fi cafes. Exchange Lane, where the east-facing buildings backed onto, was a dark narrow alley, an unlit back lane with air vents, bricked-up doorways, and fire escapes. It had no shopfronts but was sometimes temporary home to the oldest business of them all, giving squalid shelter to a few scuffling couples throughout the night. Many men stayed overnight in Aberdeen before heading offshore, and prostitutes, like the bars and fast-food businesses, sought out their trade along Market Street, and Guild Street which bisected it.
Debby has been on the gear for a number of years, longer than she dared remember. It was epochal; nothing had been the same since she had got a habit. She had been part of the great Love Generation of 1988, feeding euphorically on Es like they were Smarties. One thing, as always, had lead to another. Needing something to help her come down from the manic wired state of one too many pills, she had discovered smoking the gear took the edge off wonderfully; then preferred it to raving; then it had consumed her, leaving the thin, squalid wretch shivering and waiting for someone to mug. All this took place over a number of years, her gradual decline charted by the falling away of her looks to a sallow-faced, yellow-toothed, scrawny thing, her friends turning through time to fellow junkies, scam-artists and thieves who thought nothing of turning over someone they knew and liked, if the chance arose. Debby had been victim to this but had also done similar deeds herself, when the need for money grew to desperation, and the bitterness of her reaction to being fucked over was half at losing out on money, but half on being naïve enough to leave others with opportunities. They all knew that desperation.
She normally did the route for a few hours every night, earning enough to get the monkey off her back, getting temporary respite from the insistent demands of heroin withdrawal. It was bearable, with the thought of getting some gear in the back of her mind like a beacon of hope, an oasis that she could hide and shelter from the brute realities of her present situation. Some of the guys were poor things, desperate for some love or affection, only able to get anywhere near that by buying sex. Some just wanted to talk; talk about anything, odd meandering conversations, where they came close to sharing some intimacy, but for awkwardness and inarticulacy. Those punters could actually feel more invasive than the guys who just wanted a quick fuck – they wanted to know about her, why she did it, what she got out of it (“money, you fucking idiot”, she'd thought), had she a bloke, if she had any regular punters? There were even guys who got her services for their adolescent sons, ushering her into a nearby hotel past the tipped-off night-porter to a room with a gawky nervous boy.
But there were total bastards as well, men who wanted to abuse women, and she’d developed an acute sensory awareness of any impending dangers. Not always successfully, as her gaping smile reminded her – but she could easily have come off worse than one tooth down.
That night she had been too late getting some cash together and the grim symptoms of need were in full flow. The thought of even being touched by some sweating, desperate drunkard made her shudder; she could never bear being touched in this condition. Her already graying flesh looked almost jaundiced, and her muscles suffered mild spasms, shaking and quivering, while sweat like frost on a car roof chilled her back. It was time. The dealer, Mikey, had the stuff of course, but no pleas or promises could move him. He’d stopped answering her pleading mobile phone, wouldn’t respond to any texts. Cash or nothing: that was the deal. But she couldn’t whore for money, not in that state; someone ape of a bloke pulling at her, running his grubby hands over her, thrusting his sweaty cock in her… the thought revolted her. If she’d had a hit, it was bearable, but not now, not on the brutal comedown. Her jagged nerves screamed for relief, but there was only one she could think of. So she was hidden in a doorway, waiting for some drunken fool to stagger past, donner kebab in hand and on the look-out for a prostitute to fuck badly, that she could mug.
There. She heard a shuffling ahead, at the mouth of the alleyway. Slow steps, unsure. Bingo: a drunkard by the sound of it. She gripped the knife in her hand, and tried to make herself as small as possible so whoever it was didn’t notice her as he (or she – but most likely he) staggered past.
Alan continued to shuffle on. The darkness of the alley had attracted his zombie instincts. It seemed the right kind of place, where he could pick off some kind of victim, or at least remain unseen. He walked, dazedly, arms out, clutching for whatever he could find. Halfway through the lane a shadow came from behind him, pressing a cold, sharp knife up against his throat.
“Alright mate, you want to take it easy and hand over your wallet?” Debby whispered desperately into Alan’s ear. Before she knew what was happening, Alan had grabbed her knife-wielding arm and flung her over his back. She landed with an “OOF!” on the cobblestones, winded and unable to get up in time, even as terrified panic tried to spur her on. Alan fell on her like an avaricious seagull on a quarry of fish, squawking his delight. He straddled her, brutally beating her head against the cobblestones, again and again and again, until any fight was completely gone from Debby, her jerking legs and arms subsiding, her broken neck limp as a flaccid penis.
Alan was delighted with his handiwork, demonic delight lighting up his face like Christmas lights being turned on. He lifted her head up, and found a section of her skull was completely caved in. He pulled her hair aside and thrust his bestially clawed hands into the blood-red wound, scooping out handfuls of brains. He ate them up greedily, gobbling them down as fast as he could, pieces getting smeared on his face or falling to the ground. He ate up all the brains he could. They’d make him twice as clever.
He stood up, and moved on, making his way through the side-street and onto Market Street itself. Suddenly a quiver went straight through him – something had happened, somewhere. Something… good. A deadly grin settled on his zombie features. He had work to do, true, but now there were more of them. He avoided the gazes of those walking past and made his way to the nearest nightclub, The Pelican. It was underground, dark and dingy, with thumping electronic music already drowning out the potential for conversations. Just the place for him. The doorgirl, interrupted from her “Heat” magazine, said “Free before 11pm” and let him past with barely a look. There were all sorts who went into The Pelican. Some people who were right states, too.
In Private Eyes, the whole freakshow exploded with shocking suddenness and horrifying intensity. Emma and Nicky burst out of the private room like a powerjet of liquid death, fangs already dripping blood, still naked, gore-smeared and rabid. All those who had been incubating their little stranger flipped and turned into ravenous zombies, eyes a rat-like blood-red, teeth and fingernails growing and hardening into deadly weapons. They turned on all those uninfected around them and set about their gruesome slaughter, sparing none. Women turned on men, men on women, dancers on clients, doormen on customers, customers on bar staff. The violence was immediate and ferocious; death, dismemberment and disembowelment the sole aims.
Nicky and Emma ran amok through the club, thrusting their fangs anywhere they could, Emma raking her talons deep into the stomach of the chubby DJ who fell, desperately trying to tuck his bowels back in. Nicky drove straight for a gaggle of dancers on a sofa, attacking them like a Tasmanian Devil with rabies, biting off any body parts she could, slicing off one girl’s face cleanly to expose an insanely grinning skull, thrusting her claws into another’s neck, chomping down on another’s leg to prevent her getting away, then falling on her ravenously, devouring her, working through her breasts and working into her ribcage, seeking out the still-beating heart and the major organs, which she pulled out her teeth, thrusting aside to lie on the floor, oozing blood and body fluids. David had gone berserk, turning on Candy, a dancer he had long harboured romantic and more prosaic feelings for. He had pulled her head off with his bare hands, and grasped it by her long blonde hair. He tied the trailing, bloody stump by its luscious locks to a door handle at the far side of the club. Then he unzipped his trousers and began fucking the dead head in the mouth. He ejaculated his demonic seed into the eyes, which were still bulging from Candy’s horror at how she was dying, the cum blistering and burning through them like some highly corrosive acid, smoking acridly. A customer that had been infected had pulled off one of his friend’s legs and was clubbing people to death with it, even as his friend bled to death, screaming in agony, “PAUL! PAUL! MY LEG! MY LEG!” Another dancer thrust her hand deep into a man she had been chatting to and pulled put his entire tongue, throwing it behind her, where it landed on a pint of lager, looking like an enormous gherkin in a large jar of piss, as the man choked on a cascading torrent of blood. The slaughter went on and on, jets of blood cascading on the floor, shreds of human flesh being thrown about savagely, occasional stumps of limbs tossed through the air, heads pummeled on the ground leaking brains and brain fluid onto the soft carpeting. David and Colin had torn off one further head each and placed them on their erect penises, holding dismembered limbs and seeking out further victims to batter to unceremonious death.
All who could turned to flee from the sudden nightmare they beheld. Barry stood at the doorway, a zombie colossus, eviscerating the panicking hordes who were packed up in front of him, his vicious claws and enormous strength taking out anyone foolish or terrified enough to attempt to get through him. A large and still-growing pile of disemboweled and dismembered corpses lay just in front of him, testament to his pitiless dedication to his reversed role to keep everyone inside. Emma noted the crowd jammed up against Barry, and leapt over to join in with the deadly melee, jumping onto the back of the man nearest her, biting off an ear, then as he struggled to pull her off, grabbing a hold of his neck and breaking it with a sudden new-found strength.
Amidst the carnage and torrents of blood and gore, a dancer called Laura had just come back from the staffroom, where she had been taking a break, reading a copy of “Hello” and smoking a cigarette. She stepped through the door to be greeted with the unholy sight of a number of rabid, feral zombies – who yet still resembled the people they had once been – mercilessly slaughtering everyone else who was in the club. The sight stunned her mind and almost popped her eyeballs, yet she retained enough sanity to turn back into the staffroom, where there was a fire exit to a side street. Nicky noticed her rapid turn and exit, and followed her into the staffroom.
Just as Laura was managing to move the fire hydrants and large rubbish bin that had been placed in front of the exit, Nicky entered the room. Laura turned and looked at her, in horror… and with some pity. Nicky had been a friend of hers. They had shared eyeliner and coke, laughed together about imbecilic customers and grumbled about managers, gone on nights out together, been friends together. Now she was a naked, blood-spattered, gore-smeared zombie. Their friendship was never going to survive that.
“Nicky…” Laura said gently. “Nicky… it’s me, Laura. Remember me?” Nicky slowed her approach and paused, looking directly at Laura, as some glimmer of her former humanity seemed to re-enter her shattered mind. Laura continued, “Something… something’s happened to you. I don’t know what. I’ve got to leave… please understand!” she begged.
A low, inhuman growl came from Nicky’s mouth. “Go…” She turned back towards the door.
Laura turned back to the fire escape, feeling as though she had had a reprieve on her life, and started to push on the stiff, unyielding bar to open the door. It slowly scraped across the concrete outside, and Laura slipped through as soon as she could. But just as she was pressing herself through the narrow escape, Nicky turned and, snarling, thrust her clawed hand out at Laura. The evil talons scratched painfully down Laura’s side, and caught on her top, tearing off the mid-section to reveal her toned mid-riff. But she heroically managed to push herself free, ignoring the despairing howl from Nicky, out of the satanic club and into the street. Laura ran, she ran like the wind, down Rose Street and onto Union Street, aiming for Queen Street, where she would find the police station.
The thing which used to be Nicky turned back for the club. The slaughter was coming to an end, the final sorry victims in their death throws. The zombies, utterly victorious, turned to face each other and howled a massive roar, a terrifying scream. But this was only the first part of the night. The grotesque slaughter had merely whetted their appetites. The whole city would be theirs! All would perish in the brutal carnage. They flung their heads to the sky, and the cry went up: “DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!”
