Decaying Hearts

Chapter 23

  “It’s happening, son.” My father began, his lips trembling as he rubbed his hands together manically. To the others he must have looked like a maniac that had escaped the institution; his remaining hair that only covered the lower half of his skull stood out on its ends, greying with the stress. His eyes were blood shot and visible from a far, probably from the lack of sleep he’s been having due to his preparations for the apparent invasion of the world that was about to happen.
   “What’s happening?” I sighed, instantly regretting the question as I said it. I knew he would only spin in to a topic of his mad theories of monsters disguised as people, as people we loved and then wiping out entire families until the world was a wasteland. Such things just weren’t plausible, monsters were only meant to be characters found in the books and tales told to misbehaving children, but monsters were never real. The only monsters I knew were those I shared a roof with.
    As I corrected the luminous bib I was forced to wear every time we entered the visiting room, so the guards would be able to identify me, to ensure I don’t escape, I took in the faces of the criminals amongst us. One guy, John, sat at a table across from his pregnant girlfriend. His dark hair fell in front of his eyes, hiding the tears that rolled down his cheeks as he knew all too well how he would miss his children grow; before he had been sentenced the couple had discovered they were having a set of twins, the sex they kept a surprise. He had been sentenced to jail for involuntary man-slaughter. His drunken driving and negligence had resulted in the death of two children and their father as he collided with them at a zebra crossing. Every day in our cell, John would kneel on the ground and face the window in prayer, begging the lord for forgiveness and crying how sorry he was to the family he had destroyed. In his sleep he would whisper words to childless mother and a widow, words he would know she would never hear – she had killed herself not long after. He showed nothing but remorse and regret, he knew just how dire a stupid mistake could be.
    There was much worse criminals in these cells, John was just a man that had been caught up in his own stupidity; he had never intended to kill. Whereas Kyle, the scrawny twenty year old in the corner with large glasses that fell to the tip of his nose, deep in conversation with his dear old mother, had left his home the year before with the intent to kill his girlfriend’s secret lover. In the heat of the moment he had killed them both, stabbing the bloke multiple times in the chest until he crumpled to the ground and then drowning his girlfriend in the bath; she never even heard him coming.
    The majority of people in the room made me sick to my stomach, most of who showed no remorse for their terrible and unforgivable crimes. Sex offenders and murderers sat back laughing and joking in their chairs as family and friends came to visit, showing that they would forever support their criminal. At least I was in here for semi-noble reasons. I may have lied in a court of law, but I wasn’t a killer. I gave my sister and her son a life and for that reason I could live behind these bars knowing I was better person than the sickening scum that thrived under the thrill of crime.
   “The monsters, there’s more of them. People are walking the streets and then all of a sudden they change. They started biting, eating their lovers or their children or their friends.” My father started, a shaking hand brushed through his messy hair and pulled his hands down to cradle the back of his neck with nerves. “It’s going to happen soon. It already is, but it’s going be different. They’re going to take over. One day they will outnumber us and then we will all be gone. All that will be left is them.”
   His skin was deathly pale. Bags had begun to reside beneath his grey-blue eyes that match my own. His once clear forehead was now home to stubborn wrinkles and furrowed brows. There was genuine fear in his eyes, the terror swirling violently in his irises like maelstrom of the darkest seas. He looked at me quickly and back to the table between us, “You think I’m crazy.”
   And he was right. I did think he was crazy. Just watching him quiver in his chair and taking notice of how quickly his eyes darted around the room, how he reacted and winced to every sound, I was convince he was losing his mind in his old age. I thought he was going senile. I had spoken to my mother about it long before, yet she refused to seek help. She had been very old fashioned and was somewhat ashamed of my father as his mental state began to deteriorate. In her youth, such behaviours were frowned upon and she was terrified of what others would think.
   “No, Dad. I just think you might need… just….” I paused with a heavy sigh. “You need some help.”
   He huffed a disbelieving laugh and I instantly felt shame hover over me like a dark cloud waiting to shatter with rain. It was not a shame for my father, but for myself. I felt so much shame that I was unable to believe him as he expected me to, as he hoped I would.  His stories were just so… out-there and preposterous, most of all they were terrifying. Who in the right mind would want to believe that people were turning on each other, tearing each other apart in the streets? Nobody.
    “Say’s the boy spending his life behind bars for his fucked up sister.” He suddenly spat before using the table to push himself up to his feet and shot for the door. For a split second I sat back in disgust and watched as my father walked across the room, but before I knew it I was on my feet calling out to him.
   I jumped to my own feet and began running across the floor accidently knocking the chair of Crazy Pete; we call called him that as every night we all heard him laughing hysterically to himself for no apparent reason. Even the coppers began to call him Crazy Pete. By the time I had caught up to my father he was already half way out the door and as I reached out for him, I was caught by the nearby guards that ushered me back in the room.
  “Sit down, son.” Officer Hardy said calmly and soothingly. Surprisingly, Hardy and I were quite on friendly terms; as friendly as a police officer and a feigning criminal could be anyway. He would often talk with me during free time and allow me to borrow his iPod in the cells.
  “Dad!” I yelled and voice bounced through the corridor just beyond the doors.
    I could see father just a few feet away, he turned only slightly to look after with loving eyes. The same eyes I had not seen since I was in my teens. “I hope you die quickly, son. I’ve seen what they are like with my own eyes. I hope you don’t meet that fate.” And he turned away for the last time.
    After a quiet word from Hardy, I slumped back down in my chair for the remainder of the 10 minutes of visiting time. I sat in deep sickening thought, with stubborn arms across my chest, I had never seen such hatred and disappointment in my father’s eyes as he rose from his seat. He came to me as a confidant, to express his fears and the trauma that teased him. As the leaving bell rang, everybody rose to regretful feet; all wishing for an extra few minutes that would not be granted. They said their heartfelt farewells and prisoners fell back in to plastic seats, watching as loved ones left.
    “What’s up, Joshy? Crazy old fool been talking his usual shit. That fucker needs locking up more than we do!” Kyle smirked comfortable from his seat.
    He was laid back against the flimsy plastic chair, one arm laid atop of it whilst an idle finger picked and poked at the gap in his teeth. His glasses shimmered maliciously in the reflection of the bright lights and I snapped. I moved so fast I could barely remember how I got there, but I found myself leaning over him with a fist clenched and poised for the punch when a sound caught my attention. A faint mutter flicked at my ears in the back ground, in coherently.
   I let go of the fist-full of shirt and pushed so Kyle and his chair laid in a tangle on the tiled floor and I walked back to the centre of the room to the table and chair that had been set beside mine. Crazy Pete now leaned over the table with his head heavy in his hands, his head shaking violently and his body rocked backwards then forwards.
   “There coming. There coming.” He started slowly.
   “Who’s coming?” I said, cautious and the nerves swam through my blood like fish in a river of ice.
   “Therecomingtherecomingtherecoming.” The words were tumbling and tumbling without breath, before officers had arrived and dragged him away.
   My heart sank and stomach tightened as it dawned on me. He knew what my father also had. They had come to us as a warning, a warning so we could prepare to protect ourselves and our world, like Moses came as a saviour to the Hebrews. They had warned us so many times and we ignored every effort, now we were caught in a death-filled land. We were stuck in limbo being unwilling to die and yet not quite living.
  That day had been the last time I ever saw my father, and Crazy Pete. That day Crazy Pete had been whisked away to a special unit after lashing out against the officers. The week after I received the news that my father had killed himself in ‘fear of living through hell’, he had said in the letter he had left behind. And the month after, the outbreak began and I was freed from the prison in to world of fire and death.