The sound of a cat’s footstep is an almost legendary thing.
It’s a by-word for the closest thing to silence that there can be.
Yet, so keen were Banner’s ears, that he heard it.
An impossibly quiet, but distinct, pad, pad, pad, as a cat’s feet stepped on the wooden floor behind him. He stood up quickly, picking up the rifle and spun around with it in his hands, the tripod dangling from it. The cat leaped up at him and he pulled the trigger. The bullet took off a hind leg, and the cat landed on his chest, gripping his combat jacket with claws that could have been sharpened in hell. It lunged with open jaws for his face.
Banner dropped his rifle and put his hands around its neck and squeezed. It did no good. The animal either didn’t feel pain, or it ignored it. He felt its remaining hind leg clawing at his belly, tearing strips from his jacket. For a small animal, it was possessed of an alarming strength. The thought crossed Banner’s mind that he might not be able to keep it from biting his face for long. He kept hold of its neck with his left hand, and reached inside his jacket with his right. As he did so, it wriggled almost free of his grip and lunged at him. He felt its teeth scrape against his chin and in the same instant he placed the muzzle of his magnum .44 into its mouth and blew it away.
Some sort of vile fluid leaked from the headless body of the cat onto Banner’s hands, just before it fell to the floor. He felt a burning sensation on his fingers. He rushed to the nearest bathroom and rinsed his hands under the tap. There was a mirror above the wash hand basin. Banner took a torch from his pocket and examined his face in the mirror. He had a tiny scar on his chin. What did that mean? Could he be infected with something?
He took his hunting knife from his belt and ruthlessly sliced off the flesh where he’d been scarred, hoping that he’d sliced it off in time to prevent any infection from spreading throughout his body. His blood flowed freely from the self-inflicted wound. He let it drop into the basin for a few minutes. Then, satisfied he’d done all he could to protect himself, he used his first-aid kit to dress the wound as best he could, and drove to the accident and casualty department of the Nab General Hospital.
After a wait of several hours he was finally seen by a doctor, who cleaned the wound with an antiseptic.
“I’m going to have to stitch this up,” said the Doctor. “It’ll be painful, unless I use a local anaesthetic.”.”
“Just get on with it. Don’t bother with the anaesthetic, I’m in a hurry,” said Banner.
“Are you sure?”
Banner nodded.
The Doctor widened his eyes and prepared his needle and thread. He carefully sewed up the wound, pulling the two sides of it together as best he could. Banner didn’t flinch.
“Thanks,” he said when the Doctor was done. “I’ll be on my way now.”
It was 10.00 a.m. by the time he got back to Nobblethwaite. He went to his room in the Ne’er do well and used his laptop to email a detailed report to his handler in MI5. When he’d done that, he packed his bags, put them in the back of his Land Rover, and began the long journey through miles of road works and cones back to London.
As he approached Leicester Forest East, Banner felt an odd sensation. It was a sensation that someone else might have missed, but Banner, being a trained man and an athlete, could discern immediately that all was not well. He decided he ought to take a break from driving, so he pulled off the motorway at the Services and bought a black coffee from the Costa coffee shop. He sat at a table by the window and began to drink his coffee. There was something wrong with it. It didn’t quite taste the way it should.
Banner felt a tingling sensation to either side of his nose. He touched his hand to his cheek. There were what seemed to be several wires protruding from his skin. He quickly stood up and made his way to the toilets, noticing as he did that heads were turning on all the tables and looking at him as he moved amongst them to the toilet entrance. In fact, they were doing more than just looking at him; jaws were dropping in amazement, or something else — fear, perhaps.
Banner quickened his pace.
He got to the toilets and looked in the mirror. He’d grown a set of whiskers, like a cat, and in the time it’d taken him to get from his table to the toilet, he’d acquired a covering of short ginger fur all over his face.
The other men using the toilets were all looking at him, while trying to look as if they weren’t looking at him. One of them managed to piss himself.
Banner found a vacant cubicle and locked himself in it. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and sent a text message:
My dearest Flagge, I have no choice. Please remember that, and please forgive me when news of what I’ve done reaches you. Above all, remember that I love you, now and forever, with all of my heart. All my love, Daddy xxx
He dropped the mobile which clattered on the tiles at his feet.
He took his magnum .44 from its holster and stuck it in his mouth. He held it at an angle that would ensure that his brain would be thoroughly destroyed.
Then he did the right thing for Queen and country: he squeezed the trigger.
CHAPTER 6
The morning was cold and bright.
Iris Simpson boiled the kettle in the kitchen at the back of the small cottage she and her husband occupied near the top of South Stonker Lane, and made a flask of tea.
“Are you ready Brian?” She shouted.
“I am, luvie,” he replied. “I’ve got me paper and I’m just getting me shoes and coat on.”
Summer was turning to autumn, so they both made sure they were well-wrapped before venturing out and walking the short distance to the wooden bench down the road that overlooked the town of Huddersfield. The bench had a brass plaque on it which said: ‘Queen’s Jubilee Year 1977’.
They sat on the bench and Iris poured them both a cup of tea. The two pensioners liked to spend an hour sitting on this bench every day, weather permitting.
Brian unfolded the newspaper he’d been carrying and began reading it. It was the Huddersfield Examiner. The front page bore the headline: ‘Zombie Festival Comes To Town’.
He read the story with a keen interest.
‘Tarquin Camemblert, the prime Minister, let it be known today through official sources that there will be a series of festivals across the country in honour of the sacrifices made by the town of Huddersfield, which enabled him to put paid to the plague of zombies which was on the verge of bringing the country to its knees. The theme of the festivals will be clog-dancing celebrity chef zombies. The main festival will be held in Huddersfield itself, in the town’s famous St. George’s Square, and will be attended by a number of visiting dignitaries including the Prime Minister and President of the United States of America, Adolf Doughnut.
It is anticipated that the festival will bring much-needed funds into the town, which will help to pay for the rebuilding of the town centre, which had to be bombed as part of the war effort against the zombies.’
Just as he got to the end of the paragraph, Brian felt a sharp object in his ribs. It was his wife’s elbow. Then he heard her voice whispering in his ear.
“Brian, just look at that. There’s some right funny looking people coming down our road.”
Brian lowered his newspaper and peeped over the top of it.
“Don’t make it so obvious, you bloody daft bugger,” she said.
Somewhat confused, he raised the newspaper again, and peered around the side of it. He saw three people on the other side of the street. The first of them had a yellow skinned jaundice look about him, and he had his black hair styled in a magnificent pompadour. The second would have been a strikingly attractive and exotic-looking woman with long jet-black hair, were it not for the fact that she, too, was yellow, which somehow gave the impression of decay; and the third was a burly type, with a bristling moustache, a similar yellow complexion, and the look of a bouncer at a cheap nightclub.