The Last Plague by Rich Hawkins

something wet and dripping. He imagined a toothless mouth with fleshy slippery gums and tongue running over clammy white lips.
         “Frank,” Ralph said, clicking his fingers at him. “What do you think?”
         Frank looked back down the street.
         “Frank!”
         He looked at Ralph. “Okay.”
         Ralph and Joel hauled Magnus towards the house. There was a blue Nissan on the driveway.
         Frank followed then stopped at the door. Joel was calling out to see if the house was occupied. No answer. Ralph helped Magnus sit down on the hallway floor, slumped against the wall. He muttered under his breath.
         Joel returned from the kitchen. He had already checked the living room. “Nobody home. Don’t know about upstairs, though.”
         “Shut the door, Frank,” said Ralph.     
         “I’m going back.”
         Ralph’s eyes widened. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, mate. Why?”
         “It’s not right to leave her.”
         “Please don’t go,” said Joel. “Stay here, Frank.”
         “I’m sorry. I have to do it.”
         “Don’t be a dickhead,” Ralph said. “We have to look after Magnus, not some woman we don’t even know.”
         Frank handed his bag to Joel. “I can’t leave her back there.”
         “Here.” Ralph tossed Frank the crowbar.
         He caught it.
         “Get back here in one piece.”
         Then Frank was gone.
          
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
     
     
    CHAPTER TWELVE
     
     
    Frank hid behind the back of a white transit van parked by the side of the road. He gripped the crowbar and peered around the side of the van.
         The woman was gone.
         A sliver of panic and guilt stabbed him in the gut. Something had happened to the woman. He had had the chance to save her but neglected it. Maybe someone else had helped her. Maybe not.
         Frank’s body sagged and he rubbed his face with one moist, clammy palm.
         Something moved on the other side of the van. The patter of feet and the scrape of something on the road. Frank froze. His temples throbbed.
         Something shrieked.
         The sound filled Frank’s head. He clenched his teeth, fought the urge to scream, pins in his eardrums.
         The shrieking thing swiped against the van. A scraping sound, like nails over metal.
         Frank crouched and looked under the van.
         The naked legs and bare feet of a man. Gangrenous lesions on his calves. It is human. The man grunted, a terrible livestock sound, like a cow drowning in a mud pit. Frank was struck by a stink like something left to rot in the sun by the side of a road.
         Frank realised that if he could look under the van at the man, then the man could do exactly the same. He edged to the rear of the vehicle, towards the wheel, for cover. The man breathed loudly through a gasping mouth. The fevered breaths of a sick animal.
         The man skittered . Wet grunted breaths grew more rapid.
         The man was moving around the side of the van, towards him.
         Frank got onto his hands and knees and scrambled under the vehicle. The cloying stink of oil and diesel.  He stayed low to the ground, kissing the road. The cold hard tarmac bit at his hands. He tucked in his limbs. He held his breath. Sweat dripped from his face. His pulse thudded hotly between his ears and he thought the man might be able to hear his heartbeat.
         The man’s bare feet stopped next to him. Long toenails yellowed, curved and fungal. Calloused heels wrapped in dead, flaking skin.
          I’m a fool for coming back here. 
         The man shrieked again, the sound of swollen and infected vocal chords.
         Frank closed his eyes. He did not want to see the man’s face when he stooped to drag him from his hiding