This world had become a warped reflection of them, in fact—as monstrous as the things that had taken over. It was hard to remember what life was like before, to be honest; especially for someone like Pat. Vague recollections, images mostly—of playing with a puppy out in the garden as the sun shone down. Of being given a chain with a cross on it by Mum that was still worn today. Of being lifted by two strong hands, planted on Dad’s knee as he read a story out loud; a favourite fairy tale, one that could never, ever be true.
Or could it?
In any event, Pat had felt safe while the story was being read—knowing it was only a fable. And anyway Dad was there, he would never let anything happen. He was the one who checked under the bed, in the closet for monsters. Except, when the real monsters came along, there was nobody who could save them—nowhere that was safe. Pat had been very little when they took control, multiplying like rabbits. The authorities had tried to combat them, but stood very little chance. The war that followed hadn’t lasted long, but the aftermath certainly did. The human race had barely survived it—barely survived their own solution to the problem, either, which hadn’t really proved a solution at all. Had killed as many of their own kind as it did the mutts.
The monsters had survived. The monsters had thrived ... Leaving pockets of humanity, of resistance to fight back the best way they knew how. Most of them gravitating towards this region. It had been a long time since Pat had felt safe, a long time since Dad’s knee, since the story. He was long gone, same as Mum and the rest of the family. This was the only world Pat had ever really known, this scene as familiar as it possibly could be. Scavenging out here had done that, before Pat had been found—been taken in. Been set to work, scouting, delivering messages ... Pat could go unseen, pretty much—not draw attention like a squad of soldiers. Slip between buildings, journey through this wasteland like a duck sails through ... used to sail through water.
No ducks now. Very little water.
That was the idea, anyway. That was how it usually worked. And at only seventeen, some might argue Pat was still too young to be out here—out here alone—but at least there was a purpose to it now. Not just looking for the next crust of edible bread, the next can of cold beans, but making a difference; keeping the hopes of their people alive, and doing as much damage to those bastard hounds as possible in the process. Pat was a vital part of the resistance’s efforts, a cog in a larger machine—but a necessary one. Take this mission, for example: to deliver important intel about stuff like the enemy’s movements, about co-ordinated attacks. Pat didn’t know the ins and outs of what it said, nor what might be done with it—that was all on a need to know basis. On coded sheets of paper in the messenger bag, along with a few essential supplies: a bottle of whisky for Colonel Alkins of Outpost 7B for one, a token of gratitude for her help with that skirmish on the border a couple of weeks ago. Now, that woman was a force to be reckoned with and no mistake—a proper battleaxe. You couldn’t let the fact that she was pushing sixty fool you; at the opposite end of the scale. Alkins had killed more monsters than Pat had had hot dinners ... or cold ones, come to that. What she wanted with that foul liquid, though, was anyone’s guess. Pat had tried it once in the barracks, been given a sip by a trooper called Willis: “Here lad, knock it back. That’ll put hairs on your chest!” It had burned all the way down, making Pat’s eyes water. Willis had laughed at the shiver as it did and the coughing afterwards, slapping Pat on the back (though whether that was out of affection or he was just trying to stop the choking, Pat still didn’t know).
The information couldn’t be broadcast over the airwaves, in case the monsters were listening in—oh, they were clever ones, these. Not your average braindead savages. If they had been, maybe people would have stood more of a chance? Wasn’t to say they weren’t savage; they were that all right. Pat had witnessed enough bloodletting by those things to fill a thousand nightmares ... not that people slept much these days, and not for more than a few hours at a time, if they were lucky. Pat definitely wouldn’t be sleeping tonight, not even in the relative shelter of 7B. Too wired, too hopped up on adrenalin.
The trip back would be simpler, hopefully. Only reason it had taken so long on the way here was that feeling ... The feeling of being watched, being followed; you learnt to rely on those kinds of senses out here. Didn’t matter how careful you were, though, how much you covered your tracks—and remember, those bloody things were the ultimate trackers!—you could still find yourself in trouble. Find yourself being stalked.
Find yourself dead.
Hadn’t been that far into this city either, when Pat first started to notice it. Movement out of the corner of the eye, but then nothing there when you looked. The fingering of that chain around the neck, something Pat did unconsciously whenever the nerves kicked in; an overwhelming urge to run, regardless of the fact that would be the worst thing to do. You panicked, you made mistakes. Better to keep cool and just fade into the background if you could. Losing the shadows would be better, of course.
Which is what Pat had been trying to do, either throw off the tail or lead them a merry dance away from 7B. Away from anywhere. Until you knew you were on your own again ... Not a good idea to be on your own, but an even worse one to have the wrong sort of company. Pat would rather spend a lifetime alone than face that.
The claws, the teeth, the blood ... So much blood. So much ... red.
More memories, flashes of things that had happened to Mum and Dad. Pat fought them down, needed to concentrate on shaking off whoever ... whatever was following. In one building, through and out into the next. Turn once, twice, double back and go down a different alleyway.
It took a while, but finally Pat was satisfied the tail was gone. Then, and only then, was it okay to carry on with the mission. But, of course, by that time what there was left of the sun—watery and weak in a muddied sky—was low on the horizon. It would be night soon. Pat considered the options: hole up and wait until morning to continue; or put on a spurt and get to 7B, spend the night there. The latter was clearly the most attractive choice by miles, but was it the most sensible?
Sensible or not, that’s the one Pat plumped for: plotting the alternate route from there before following it; pulling the hood up over close-cropped, spiky hair, head down and onwards. Once or twice, there was that feeling again; not quite enough to double back or even turn back, abort the mission completely. More that it drove Pat on to reach 7B regardless, to reach sanctuary. At least there were people skilled in the art of warfare billeted in that place. Pat knew the basics, was okay in a scrap, but wasn’t a natural born fighter. A handgun and a knife were the only weapons brought on these runs—anything else would simply slow things down. Rifles slung over the shoulder, rocket-launchers? They just got in the way ... ’Course, whether Pat felt the same way when confronted by those mutts was another matter: a pistol and a knife wouldn’t be much use in a stand up fight. That was one scenario where running might actually be better; when the fight or flight instinct told you that if you didn’t make a break for it, you’d be killed on the spot.
Not today. It wouldn’t come to that today.
The enemy had been avoided, fooled even, and Pat was almost at the target destination. Hidden in what had once been the foyer of a museum, which Pat couldn’t help thinking now stood only as a testament to what had happened—exhibits destroyed, paintings blackened by fire—was the entranceway to the outpost: a set of wooden double-doors, also ravaged by flames, almost hanging off their hinges. Behind these, Pat found a second set of metal doors, the real doors, which would have taken quite a lot of explosives to force open. It was on this that Pat knocked—the staccato rap that was a secret entreaty to be let in. But that was still only the first of several steps which would gain a visitor entrance.
“Identify!” wafted a gruff voice through the door. The speaker sounded as if he was on a different planet, not a few feet away.
“P 15022012,” came the reply. The code for Pat’s name and a birthdate; a means of telling who the caller was. It was unique for every messenger, couldn’t be copied. It was possible, of course, for that code to be tortured out