The Dead Are Coming: Jim and the Old Man, Part 2

THE DEAD ARE COMING

READ JIM AND THE OLD MAN PART 1

The old man, feeling older than ever, finished his smoke, paused, opened his toughened old hand and burned it out on the fleshy part at the base of his thumb. Pain. Always pain. They didn’t feel pain. Took ages bashing their heads in. The young ‘uns had done it at first and left instructions with Jim, Bill and him what to do when they ran for somewhere else. No care for the elderly anymore, they can’t run, just a hindrance.

Left to cull the dying, the lesser living had to pick up where the youth abandoned them. The plan had been two on the arms and one swinging the lead pipe. Not one and one. He and Jim not realising how soon they’d get the practice. Noticing him still and inconsolate, Jim had been hugging Bill at the time. It was sad, the way an important friendship had become divisive. An act of love obliterated with an act of violence. 

It had been so long they’d been performing this awful, aggressive euthanaisia, time was unregisterable. Bill had turned toward Jim ,who, to show love and support, consoled him. Not acknowledging what had been done, Jim refocussed on the others.

Dead eyes. With hindsight the old man remembered that vacant yet malevolent look as Jim had pulled away. Then he hit him, Jim pawing at his torn face.

At first he had thought his lack of strength was why it hadn’t hurt Bill, but as he opened his mouth to come at him, snapping teeth with pieces of black, dry blood from the previously dead. The old man knew, Jim regrouped and helped. By the time Bill was finished off he’d had his arms beaten to pulps, his face was swollen and neck had to have been broken. Nothing, no pain showing. He didn’t notice, didn’t even stop moving until his head finally imploded.

The relief was overwhelming, so was the adrenaline. What a fight, didn’t know we still had it in us.

Fresh memories, but back in the land of the living, for what that’s worth, the old man pushed the door to the room of the horror. Handkerchief over his face, a body on the floor was preventing the hinges opening fully. Flies roared around him. Through the window, this one not boarded up as what was the point advertising the dead to the dead, gardens with their safe, high walls and depressing concrete fountain finish off the worst advert for a retirement home ever. It had been a while since he had seen that view, was it now better? No. It was simply preferable to taking in the room he stood at the mouth of.

The chairs they had used to while the hours away in were still mostly full, of corpses with heads and faces in varying states of recognition. A greenhouse of grey and green flesh and bone and that eerie black blood. Spattered. Floral dresses and slippers disintegrating. You could spot the youngsters in jeans. The smell entering his eyes. The old man grunts deeply and slowly.

Then Bill, the reminder he’s here for. The backside of his skull hanging open like a burst orange, eyes open and greyed over, mouthing the moan he had made even still. His friend, Bill. The old man raised an eyebrow. Persistent bastard, Bill, cowardly of him not to mention he was bit, but good God what a fight.

With a growl, locking the door to the slaughter, the old man turned to the kitchen again. Better check on the children.

Unlock door.

Open door slowly. Shut door.

Lock door.

The women are at it again, this time over the “dinner” they were supposed to be preparing. It didn’t seem as if they had got anywhere, but they stopped arguing as he entered. Agnes was first...

“How’s Jim?”

“Seems better.”

“We really should go and see him.”

“He don’t want to upset you. Give him time. What have you cooked?”

“Tinned spam, tinned peas and tinned custard.” Said Ethel proudly. The old man’s face writhed up in revulsion. Agnes noticed.

“The custard is for dessert.”

He still looked less than impressed.

“How much food have we got left?”

“Not much.”

Agnes leant over to whisper in the man’s ear.

“Between you and me it’ll be blessed relief when we have fewer mouths to feed.”

Agnes was definitely more in touch than she was letting on. This angered him. Maybe it was her way of coping, pretending to be dotty. Crafty old cow. What else was she hiding from him? Food maybe? He hadn’t been checking. Stupid old man, too nice. The three of them stood in the kitchen, staring blankly and silently at each other for a moment.

“Set the table for four, I think Jim will be joining us for dinner.”

“Oh good!”

The old man performs his door dance again and left the room. Briskly down the hallway he unlocks Jim’s door without calling for him first and shut but does not lock it. Jim lay straight in bed, but turns over as he enters. The two share a long silence. Jim breaks it,

“Pull down the boardings, I want to see outside, as I am, one more time.”

Opening the curtains and pulling down the damp cardboard and plastic bin liners that have been keeping the room so secret to outsiders, the condensation on the windows lets the fading but still bright light in. The clear winter sky a frosted blue and pink impression of its reality.

“Nice.”

“How do we do this? You’re the doc.”

Jim sighs deeply.

“Well, as far as I can see old boy, you’re going to have to speed my end up a bit. Then let me turn you once I have myself. It is not as easy your end I’m afraid. It’s in me already.”

The old man nods.

“And, the quicker you can get it in your system and pass over yourself the better.”

“How’d you mean?”

“I’d recommend the jugular vein. Here.”

Jim wiggles a hand free of his duvets and signals to the position of the vein on the neck. The old man let a small, tired laugh out.

“Like Dracula.”

“Mmm. You’ll be my Mina Murray. Sexy devil.”

The joke fell flat, gallows humour doesn’t work onITALICS the gallows.

“So…”

“So. You’re a good friend, this is going to be... fun. We're going to be immortal.”

“We’ll see.”

The old man lights another cigarette, three left, and gave it to Jim, who smoked in silence. The old man had one himself. Two left. He'd miss smoking. Or would he? Would he be aware? What level of his personality would remain, he wondered. Was it anger, the dead showed, or simply hunger and desire for life. They finished their cigarettes and held each other's gaze. The old man went to speak, but Jim's look discouraged him.

He gently pulled a pillow from under Jim’s head. Jim closed his eyes as he did, his breathing slowing and deepening as he prepared himself for this insane idea of his. Holding the pillow in both hands the old man paused as he held it above Jim’s face. Is this a good idea? Hold on. He pushed open the unlocked door behind him. Jim cracked an eye.

“Second thoughts?”

“Easier to get out when. When.”

“Ahh, good thinking.”

He picked up the pillow again. Looks Jim in the face, smiles weakly and presses down. Hard, with all his weight and strength making sure to block both nose and mouth from air. Jim struggled weakly and briefly then stopped moving altogether. The old man kept pressure on for another minute, then sat back himself. Nothing. No movement. Light came in pathetically and fell on meek, dead man.

Oh fuck this- the old man reached for his cigarettes again. One left. He’d barely lit it and inhaled when Jim sat up, the pillow falling off his face and unveiling his new façade. Grey, like before but blank and calm. Still, almost. He turned to the old man, raising his arms free of the covers. The smoke dropped to the floor from his lips. Quickly he stamped it out in the cruddy, damp carpet and stood up.

Pause. No, no pause, Jim moved at him quicker than he’d thought him able. He was out of bed and moving with the vigour of a young man, an angry young man. The old man pushed Jim’s reaching arms aside and thrust his neck at his chattering jaws. This had better work.

As Jim tore through the side of his neck the old man let out a howl of pain and pushed away, falling over as he did. Blood shot through his fingers and onto the far wall and bed, it looked shiny and crimson in the light from outside, not black and dull as he was now used to. Writhing on the floor clutching his neck he could feel the life rushing, sprinting out of him.

Jim wasn’t done, he fell over as he came at the old man for seconds. Crawling towards him on the floor as the old man slipped in his blood pathetically trying to get away. This wasn’t in the plan, he was supposed to turn him, not eat him.

Desperately, the old man kicked Jim off, pushing himself further away from the bed, sliding around in his own gore as his consciousness ebbed away. The blood from his bite was slowing now, not long, not long. Jim got off of all fours and stood up precariously. Steadying himself and looking down at his meal he let out that moan, the moan they all had. A low, animal like growling noise. A hunter’s signal. Those snapping teeth.

The old man managed to turn around and push his back up against the front wall of Jim's room, facing the bed and Jim's reincarnation. He was fading, passing out, but something different, something strong, raged through him. Jim lumbered toward him, focussed. The old man blacked out.

Agnes and Ethel

Agnes was pottering under the sink looking for something and muttering to herself while Ethel tried to open the tins they were going to serve, cold, for dinner. Ethel noticed Agnes’ rear end protruding from the cupboard.

“Are you Okay? What are you looking for?”

Through a mouthful of the chocolate bar she’d just found Agnes responded.

“Oh… Nothing, I was just looking for some cleaning things. This place could do with a spring clean.”

“Ooh, good idea!”

Agnes stood up clutching a dusty, dry old cloth. Turning the sink on to rinse it produced a loud metallic klunk, and a few spurts of water.

“I think that’s almost done. Oh dear.”

“What’s that?”

“The water dear, it’s almost finished.”

“We should call the council.”

“Yes, we will. Have you got those tins opened yet?”

“Almost. Actually do you mind? My hands are too cold.”

“Of course not. Set the table up would you.”

Ethel staggered over to the drawers and began her futile efforts to remember where the cutlery was kept. The room did not have much in the way of a table, just the unkempt metal preparation counters.

Bang!

A knock on the door.

“Hello?” Said Agnes.

“Is that you dear?” Agnes waddled like a fat duck in her layers to the kitchen door. It was locked.

“It’s locked, have you forgotten your key?”

Bang!

Bang!

“Who is it love?” Ethel asked, heading toward the door herself.

“It must be Jim and Mr Grumpy. They’ve forgotten their key I spect.”

“Ooh, do we not have one?”

“Yes, where did he put it? Hold on a second gentlemen I’m just looking for the key.”

Bang. BANG!

Now a scratching too.

“Now, now boys we’re looking. Ethel dear look in that drawer would you?”

“This one?”

“No the one to the left of it.”

“Oh right. Yes I think this is it. Is that the right one?”

“I think so, bring it here.”

Ethel wandered over with the key at a leisurely old lady pace. Before putting it in the lock she paused.

“Are we, supposed to check first?”

“Check what?”

“I’m not sure, I remember grumpy saying not to just let people in.”

“Oh yes. Well remembered. Err, hello, Jim are you alright dear?”

The banging stopped. The low moan again, in harmony.

“Oh dear they don’t sound well, quick Agnes let them in.”

Agnes's ear pricked up at the moan and she dimmed her eyes. She knew that sound, she thought. Yes, she did. She knew what it meant. She turned to Ethel,

“You’ve got the key. You open the door.”

“Oh so I do! Hold on.”

Ethel fumbled with the key in the lock as the door banged. She struggled to unlock it. Agnes sighed and stepped forward.

“Give it here love.”

Agnes turned the key the correct way up, put it in and unlocked the door. Not even reaching for the handle she held Ethel and stepped back.

“Don’t worry boys, we’ve got it.”

The door almost burst off its hinges with the two dead men’s force. The corpses bowl in, knocking the ladies over. Agnes and Ethel scream, but only briefly.