The Last Plague by Rich Hawkins Page B

closed his mouth, scolded himself silently. With some effort he moved his limbs. He composed himself. A quick scan of the street at his level. No movement. No spindly legs waiting for him.
         He crawled out from under the van, scraping his palms and the heels of his hands. He winced, ignoring the temptation to look at the grazes on his skin. He watched the street as he rose into a crouch. Waited, watched. He stood up, his back to the side of the van, flat against it. The breeze was cold and touched the nape of his neck.
         The street was deserted. There were shadows but they remained still and were only threatening in the vague shape of them in the silent spaces.
         The flapping whisper of wings above him. A flock of birds shot overhead. They filled the sky, thousands of dark, frail-boned bodies moving as one organism. He envied their freedom, envied their flight.
         The birds faded into the distance. They were the first animals he’d seen since arriving here. No cats or dogs. Nothing.
         He had to get back to the others. They would be worried about him. He started down the street.
         
         
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
     
     
     
    CHAPTER FIFTEEN
     
     
    Something scratched against the front door.
         Ralph and Joel looked at each other. Joel’s eyes were starkly white, and Ralph gestured for Joel to stay put and then stepped into the hallway. He had locked the door straight after Frank stepped outside.
         More scratching. Slow and lethargic. Weak.
         His fingers tightened around the knife handle. He hesitated, feeling like a little boy who was scared because a stranger was at the door. Then he stepped forward, his trainers padding softly on the carpet. Joel was behind him, eyes wide and alarmed. He was about to speak but Ralph shushed him with a raised hand. Ralph looked through the spy-hole in the door.
         “What’s out there?” Joel asked.
         From what he could see there was nobody behind the door, unless the visitor was less than five feet tall or a child. His mind created an image of some grinning pygmy-creature waiting for him. Or maybe the visitor couldn’t be seen because it had crawled here and was now lying at the doorstep, crippled and bleeding. Maybe it was Frank, and he was badly injured.
         Ralph breathed out. He kept his eye to the hole. He sensed Joel’s apprehension behind him, radiating like heat, a mass of trembling flesh barely held together by his clothes.
         “Ralph?”
         He crouched and opened the letterbox, looking left and right, listening for the sound of breathing or a shuffle of movement. He closed the letterbox and stood.
         “It might be Frank,” said Joel.
         “It might not be.”
         “He might be in trouble.”
         Ralph chewed on his lip.
         “Frank?” Joel said, raising his voice.
         Something heavy crashed into the door, causing it to shudder on its hinges. Ralph fell back on to the foot of the stairway, scrambling half-way up the stairs on his back. Joel retreated down the hallway towards the kitchen.
         “What the fuck?” said Ralph.
         Another crash. The door shook. The bolt held. There was the sudden, sharp crack of wood splintering.
         Ralph raised the knife.
         Another crash reverberated throughout the house. The door was beginning to buckle. 
         Then it stopped.
         Ralph was breathing hard. His skin was greased with cold sweat.
         “I think it’s gone,” whispered Joel.
         “I hope so.”
         “I think I’ve pissed myself a bit.”
         Ralph stared at the door.
         The echo of violence hung in the air. Ralph could feel it throbbing against his skin.
         Joel crept towards the door, hands planted against the walls at his sides, his fingernails digging into the white