Pain

Cameron Beale

The end. The inevitable, bitter end. It had been coming for a while. Unlike most endings, it wasn’t the quick removal of a bandage. It dragged on and lasted for weeks.

Mark hadn’t noticed. Looking back, it was so obvious.

How could he have missed the signs?

Staring out the window in the departure lounge of Heathrow Airport, it was hard for Mark Argyle to distinguish between what was rain and what wasn’t. He held a phone to his right ear as if it was stuck by some invisible force. The numbing feeling slowly washed away to be replaced by the emotions of sadness, anger, and, most of all, regret. Regret that he couldn’t find the words to say, regret that there was nothing he could do to change things. Billie had made her choice. That choice was to end what they had. A ten-year relationship evaporated. Gone. Just like that.

‘This is the last boarding call for passengers on flight BA991,’ a distorted female voice said through the announcement system. ‘Please proceed to gate 8. Thank you.’

That was their flight. The flight booked for a romantic getaway to celebrate the promotion he had been working so diligently to get. They had always dreamed of going away somewhere nice and exotic. It had always been just out of his reach financially, but now that he was moving up the company ladder, he could afford to splash out on a holiday. And that was exactly what he did. Two business class tickets to Rome. Billie loved Italian food. Mark loved Italian food. It seemed, at the time, the perfect destination.

Mark turned away from the runway, from the plane that sat waiting for him to board. The bright white lights that seemed to run the length of the ceiling in long strips irritated his eyes. He tucked the two boarding passes and his passport into his jacket pocket, walked out of the airport into the darkness, and flagged down a taxi. It was early evening, which in London during winter meant the sun had already set.

The black cab’s headlights blinded Mark momentarily as it pulled up alongside the curb. Mark reached down and opened the door and chucked his bags into the vehicle, then slid himself in along the black leather seat.

‘Where to, mate?’ The driver said with a hint of an accent Mark couldn’t place.

Somewhere it doesn’t hurt, he said in his head.

‘Home’, he mumbled.

‘Sorry, what was that?’

Mark gave his full address to the driver, and it took a moment for him to notice they still hadn’t pulled away.

‘Seat belt, mate.’

Mark sighed and looked up at the ceiling of the cab, ‘Sorry, it’s been a tough day.’

‘Tell me about it. Normally I would have turned a blind eye, but recently the coppers have been heavy-handed with fines.’

Mark nodded at the face in the mirror. The rain that had turned into a downpour pelted the outside of the car. They moved out into the road and passed street lights, giving Mark a look at his own reflection. The face looking back at him was so forlorn. The face was that of a man who had lost everything. Mark closed his eyes as tight as he could and concentrated on his breathing.

Don’t let the pain win, he thought. Don’t let her have the satisfaction of ruining your life.

The emotions he felt were irrational. Everything else in his life was on the up and up. A good job. A mortgage on his dream apartment and friends a plenty. Friends who were sure to take him out and help him get smashed as soon as they learnt the news. The alcohol and good company would surely dampen the pain.

By the time they arrived outside the towering building he called home, Mark had somewhat composed himself. From the perspective of anyone who spotted him slinking home, he would look simply tired. It wasn’t that much of a lie. He was tired. Tired of…

No. Don’t go there. You’re overreacting again.

He slipped the taxi driver a twenty. He hadn’t heard the fare, but that seemed to be enough.

Mark pushed out of the back seat. Standing up straight, he craned his neck, shielded his eyes from the rain and found his apartment high above on the 10th floor. The lights, of course, were off. There was no one waiting for him to come home, just a flat full of stuff. The rain, now a light drizzle had finally made its way through his coat. Mark shivered, and took this as a sign to go inside.

Thankfully, there were no sightings of his nosey neighbours as he made the quick trip to his door. The few moments Mark had in the lift, enclosed in the small metal contraption, gave his mind the opportunity to wander, though he did his best to suppress certain thoughts, instead focusing on the mundane. Food. He needed food. Mark, knowing and planning for a trip abroad, hadn’t done the weekly shop, so his cupboards would be almost empty.

Mark exited the lift and walked down the hallway. Passing the Smiths’ door, he heard baby Joe screaming for attention. The sound made Mark instinctively rub his temples. He continued on, passing old Doris’ flat. That probably wasn’t her real name, but she looked like a Doris. He quickened his pace, hoping she wouldn’t sense his presence. The door to his flat opened with a click and Mark let the darkness take him. Red and blue light streamed in from the latest overblown ad campaign being played on the giant screens down the street. He ran his hand down the wall to his left until he felt the angle of the light switch. Then the light bathed the room in a warm, golden glow.

The moon was a single sliver in the night sky. Freed from the icy embrace of a soaked jacket, Mark let gravity pull him down onto the soft sofa. He pointedly ignored the framed photographs depicting happier times on the wall.

Oh, right, he had almost forgotten. Food.

He dragged his worn body up using one of the sofa arms for leverage.

His sight seemed to shake, and his head swam with dizziness. Was he really that old that standing up now left him light-headed?

‘Ugh.’ He grunted in frustration.

Probably the stress, he thought.

Then his thoughts turned to other topics, namely the closest place to find food. The quicker and greasier, the better. Fuck the guilt. Tonight, he would eat what he wanted.

A knock at the door loud enough to startle him distracted him from his stomach. His heart pounded in his chest. The subtle sting that had been nibbling away at the sides of his head expanded in a rapid explosion of agony. Head in his hands, Mark clenched his jaw, trying to push the headache out.

Another knock.

It was louder the second time and the sound of knuckles on wood gave Mark something to focus on other than his discomfort. He tried to open his eyes. He had to do so with more effort than was normal.

He shuffled hunched over, making it to the door.

Mark opened the door and pulled it towards him. Straining to peer through the red tint that had gradually painted the borders of his vision, he saw two figures in the hall looking much like himself. They held their heads in their hands, their backs bent forwards and they growled.

One man raised his head, revealing his face. Paul. It was Paul Heinlein, which meant the other man was likely his brother, Phil. A liquid puddled at their feet. The source appeared to be a six-pack of larger they had dropped.

A trickle of something warm ran down Mark’s cheek. It tickled slightly as it wound a path and flowed across his chin, then he tasted something dripping from his upper lip. Warm, a hint of metal. He looked up again at the men outside his door, blood slivered down from the corners of their eyes, from their nostrils and coloured their barred teeth a deep crimson.

Phil lifted his head, his face a picture of contorted torture. He howled and pushed past his brother and fled down the corridor. Mark heard an alarm ding from the direction the man had gone, suggesting Phil had left through the fire exit.

Paul inched forward and then burst past Mark, entering his flat.

‘Maa...Maaar,’ Paul wailed. ‘It… it...hurts.’

Mark could barely concentrate on his friend’s words. The drilling pain throbbed and threatened to pull him to the ground.

Other more distant yells called out from the corridor. Some were crying, some pleaded for the end to their suffering.

Paul fell forward and grabbed a handful of Mark’s shirt. They both screamed at each other, a whole multitude of blood left their mouths the words came out in a garbled mess. The feeling, the terrible, excruciating feeling, grew and intensified as Paul came closer. Now the sounds seemed to be filtered through water as if Mark was beneath the surface of a swimming pool. He worked to release his shirt from Paul’s tightened grip. But his friend just twisted the fabric more so. Every attempt to push through the pain failed. It was too much.

Paul fell to his knees, almost bringing Mark down with him. He struggled against that force. It was almost inhuman. Mark kept his footing at first, but his feet betrayed him after a prolonged game of tug-o-war. His feet, slick from the combined slickness of their blood on the wooden flooring, gave out. Both men thrashed on the ground, their faces nearly touching.

Peace followed pain. Red led to black.

Date: 03.02.2025 Entry No: 01

Breaking news:
THE WORLD IS FUCKED.
Well, the upside is I finally have a use for this Christmas present from nearly a decade ago. My work journals are in my office locked away in the top drawer of my desk. This note book rather inappropriately decorated with butterflies will have to do.
Anyway, as I was saying the world just ended and in spectacular fashion. All predictions and estimates espoused by so-called experts were utterly smashed into oblivion. Civilization fell in less than a day. I guess crazy Steve was right after all. Somewhat.
Why did the world end?
Here are some theories that have been percolating in my head the past few hours:
1. God had had enough and the only way he could cleanse us of our sins was to send a plague to kill off humanity (this I suspect is Crazy Steve's favourite theory.)
2. This is a new strand of the corona virus that shut down the entire world five years ago (this one is a bit more feasible.)
3. A deep state organization linked to some country's government has been pumping money into bio weapons and this is all the plan of the rich elite to thin the herd giving them more power (this one lands somewhere between the previous two theories for me.)
I've lost contact with the lab and all of my colleagues. It looks like it's up to me to find the truth.
P.S
Don't be fooled by the well put together journal entry; I am losing my shit!

-------

He awoke to a familiar sight. A round face framed by ribbons of light, eyes a deep green and a mouth in the shape of a perfect smile.

‘Billie?’ Mark said, confused. ‘What happened?’

His head didn’t hurt and as he looked around his living room, nothing looked out of place. Where was the head splitting sensation? A dream produced by his overtaxed mind? He ran his hand through his short, black hair. Dreams didn’t usually hurt Mark, but these were tumultuous days for him.

Billie lowered herself onto his lap. He was sitting on an armchair positioned flush with the large window. It was daytime outside. Life and those living it worked away far below on the streets of London.

‘I have been having second thoughts.’ She said, pressing her head to his chest. Her hair smelled of lavender, her skin had a slight aroma of coconut. ‘I think we can make it work.’

He sat, feeling her body against his. It was real. So real. So right.

To say yes was what he wanted to say. He wanted to comfort the woman of his dreams, to assure her it was going to be all right. He wanted to yell the words; let’s pretend last night never happened, but words failed him.

Last night, Mark thought. The nightmarish events must’ve been just that, a horrible dream.

Billie stood up again. ‘Let’s leave. Let’s go to Rome today. Better late than never, right?’

Yes!

The response he wanted, needed, wouldn’t come out. Mark’s lips felt glued shut.

‘What? You’re not going to say something? You don’t want this?’

He did. He really did.

Billie’s smile transformed into a scowl. ‘I broke up with you! I ended our relationship. It is all your fault, Mark.’

Mark tried to stand, to comfort her, but he just couldn’t. Nothing worked. Nothing made sense. Her words, his lack of control. Then her eyes glowed red. A ruby mist swirled around her raised hand. From it coalesced a blade. A knife long, curved and wicked.

She plunged the knife into his chest.

‘WORTHLESS.’ She yanked the knife free of his body.

The sharp steel pierced his skin for the second time. ‘USELESS.’

Yet as hard as he tried, he couldn’t move. He watched as the woman he loved repeatedly stabbed him.

‘I was wrong Mark,’ her smiled had returned and the happy, sweet tone was back in her voice. ‘So wrong. I don’t think it’s going to work between us.’

She slashed cold steel across his throat.

Mark woke up again.

A different face glared back at him. A curtain of viscera draped Paul Heinlein’s face, his eyes closed. Looking at his friend’s unconscious body, a frightening thought occurred to him; a nightmare was preferable to this reality.

In one, he could pretend and be in blissful ignorance. In the other, consequences were real.

Stomach empty, eyes stinging and raw, Mark closed the door. As he moved around, he left a trail of gore. Light streamed into the room.

What time is it?

He shuddered when he realized the door must’ve been ajar all night.

How no one heard all the commotion from the previous night left him puzzled.

His mouth was dry.

He needed to drink something.

He turned and saw Paul’s body. What are you doing? Idiot. He ducked down and ruffled through his bag. Relief found him when he discovered his phone in one of the zipped up side pockets. He pressed the button on the side. Nothing happened. He tried again this time he pushed with more strength. The phone’s screen remained a black mirror.

A flash of heat enveloped his body, Mark’s breathing quickened. He knew this wasn’t good, and he felt panic rise within.

He looked at the useless block in his hand. In it, he saw a man who looked more dead than alive. He chucked the phone at the wall. A short-lived satisfaction given by the unmistakable crunch of glass faded, replaced by shame.

Why hadn’t he charged his phone? His friend needed him, and he was useless.

Dumb ass, he told himself. He crawled the short distance back to his bag and found his phone charger. He stumbled as he stood. How much of the blood he wore was his he didn’t know, but perhaps it was more than he guessed. The hunger and dehydration wasn’t helping either.

Think, Mark. Think.

He slowed down and carefully picked up the phone. Fainting now would be disastrous. The phone screen resembled a spider’s web more than an innovative piece of technology. Mark winced and moved to the closest electrical outlet, and plugged his phone in. He watched, his sense of anticipation rising. Nothing. He cursed himself. And rested his forehead on the cold plaster of the wall.

He needed to get help, and quick.

He glanced at Paul. ‘I’m going to get you some help. Wait here.’ Mark waited for a beat, half hoping for some kind of response.

Mark fumbled along the wall, using it as a guide to lead him back to the door.

Date: 04.02.2025 Entry No: 02

I spent today doing what was essentially an inventory of all my essentials. I started with the obvious two: water and food.

I was never a fan of breakfast, so with that, plus a little frugal rationing I easily have enough for a fortnight. After that, well, I will need to restock. As for water, I have 12 unopened bottles of spring water in my fridge. The fridge is for the moment out of order, but I have a plan to remedy that.

Water is still coming through the taps, though how long that will last is up for debate. It may not be the safest water to consume because I don't imagine the filtration systems will hold out for long without maintenance. My solution for that is to use another Christmas/ birthday gift (I forget which). I have somewhere deep in the back of a kitchen cupboard a standard cheap commercial water filter jug.

I will spend this evening filling it with water from the kitchen taps, filter the shit out of it and fill as many receptacles as I can find.

Yup. Sounds good to me.

-------

A breeze raced down the hall and flapped the drenched shirt he wore against Mark’s skin. The fire exit was wide open, which gave Mark a view of the sky. There wasn’t a single cloud. It was like looking at a calm sea. Mark’s stomach churned. He turned away and walked, hands brushing along the wall in the opposite direction.

He needed to find help for Paul. He hoped his friend had the good sense not to move too much. That kind of thing exacerbated injuries.

He shuffled as far as Doris’ flat and took a moment to compose and collect.

‘Hello?’ He called. He placed his fist against the door readying to knock, instead the door slid away from his hand.

Mark looked into the old lady’s home. Probably not a good idea for someone so vulnerable to leave her door open like that.

‘Hello? Anybody home? I need… I need help my friend is hurt. Please.’

No response came.

Must be asleep.

‘Sorry for waking you, but he’s bleeding. I think he hit his head.’

Mark leaned into the apartment, looking for signs of Doris.

He was so thirsty. So hungry. So tired. He wandered, head spinning until he found himself in a kitchen, although he didn’t remember walking through the living room.

He was down low, on his hands and knees.

‘Where am I?’ He asked through dry lips.

The kitchen smelled of an odd combination of oranges and bleach. The tiles that covered the floor were hard and cold. They left impressions of flowers on his skin. Mark located a table counter that looked like it housed the sink basin. He climbed up the counter, using everything he had left. Then he turned on the tap and a torrent of water splashed into his face. He drank greedily until his body urged him to stop. Energy still eluded him. His muscles and the bones underneath still ached like hell. But his mental functions sharpened. Mark remembered where he was. And why.

‘Help!’ He shouted at the top of his lungs, no longer caring about causing a scene. A horror movie scenario was playing itself out on the floor of his home. No one called back, so he explored the rest of the flat.

The place was empty. By the time he had checked each room, dreading what he might find. Doris was ancient, after all, but he found no one. He grabbed a couple of slices of bread from the countertop and scoffed them down, and limped back out into the hall.

Doris wasn’t the only neighbour who had left their flats in a hurry. Every door Mark passed was open, and no one replied to his pleas for help. He continued on to the elevator. He slammed his fist into the call button before he spotted the digital display that should’ve shown a floor number. Instead, it flashed a small image of a wrench and screwdriver.

‘Looks like I’m taking the stairs.’

The descent was slow and did his knees no favours. His thoughts turned to the big picture. Frustratingly, nothing he thought of could explain what in god’s name happened last night and why everyone had left in such a rush. On the fifth floor, the pain he had felt the night before gradually wormed its way back into his head. He paused on a flight of stairs before it could get too bad.

Not again, Mark thought as his body heated up and sweat began to drip and splash onto the stairs.

‘Fuck off! I… I…’ The urge to lie down and just give in was too much. He stopped on the stairs. With balled fists, he punched the railing in frustration.

The pain didn’t want Mark to go outside; it wanted to push him upwards, back to where he could be free from the agony. He turned, about to do as the pain desired, his hands slick on the banister. Then he remembered he wasn’t doing this for him, he was doing it for his friend. His friend…

Paul was still upstairs alone, marinating in his own blood. Could he even still be… Mark struggled on. Not upwards, but down toward the exit.

He couldn’t let his brain finish the morbid, obvious question.

Hold on mate, he thought, with his teeth clamped shut, animalistic noises escaped through his teeth and echoed in the stairwell. Just hang on a little longer.

The pain grew and weaved down his body, inflicting itself on his chest, arms, gut, and legs. Breathing and keeping his eyes open was the hardest part.

Just two flights of stairs left. Just do it. For Paul.

And then, in a single flash, it was gone. The pain didn’t fade, it just disappeared.

Mark barged out onto the street, then stopped in his tracks. On the floor, a few feet away, was something lying in the road.

It was face down, but the shape, the distinctive features, were unmistakable.

A body.

Date: 05.02.2025 Entry No: 03

Done and done.

I have 40 litres of water which is just less than half of what would be ideal to last a month. That is just after a day of almost exclusively working to collect the stuff. Could I get more? Well yes I could but there are other pressing needs I must turn my attention to.

Namely power.

Light won't be a problem for now. I have two 1500 lumen torches at hand. Some things like my laptop can still run on the battery power that it has left. With what I have I could be all right all things considered, however what I have planned will require huge amounts of power.

-------

It was time. Time to stop pretending. Mark sat on his grey three seated sofa thinking he would no longer have a need for such furniture. Billie was out of his life and Paul was gone. He sat, recouping his strength. He would need it for what he was about to do.

The journey back up ten floors had drained him significantly, so he had borrowed a few cans of whatever he could carry from the Smiths’. It would probably be awhile until they returned home.

His expedition hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Mark was certain of two things. The first was that he was the lone occupant left in his apartment block. The second fact, outside was not a safe place to be.

Bending down to pick up one of his pilfered cans, Mark couldn’t help checking for signs of life from Paul.

Dead, Mark, he is still dead; he thought as he sat back and pulled the metal ring on the top of the tin can. A few more minutes passing won’t change that.

Beans and sausages.

10-year-old Mark would be so envious right now. Each bean and the plastic tasting sausages went down a treat. The empty can fell to the ground and rolled across the floor, coming to a stop outside the guest bedroom.

Good idea, he thought.

After resting, drinking an entire bottle of water and consuming the best meal he had had in days, Mark prepared for the grim work of moving Paul into the guest bedroom.

‘Okay,’ he said out loud. ‘How do I do this with dignity? Arms, legs or do I try picking you up, mate?’

What would’ve Paul wanted? Would he even care? Mark tried to picture what his thoughts would be had their roles been reversed. If he sat up on a fluffy cloud watching an old mate disposing of his body, what would his own reaction be?

‘Paul, if you are somewhere watching this shit-show, give me a sign.’

The sign Mark asked for came as a sharp twinge in his back as he attempted to haul Paul off the floor.

‘Legs, it is then, my well-fed friend.’

Banter, teasing and practical jokes, Paul loved it all. Paul would probably have approved the use of humour as a coping mechanism in the face of trauma. Even so, it didn’t sit right with Mark. How could he make fat jokes to his friends’ freshly deceased corpse?

Lesson learnt, he felt like the worst human alive.

Mark wasn’t the kind of guy who could hide from grief.

Dignity. That was the answer that came to him at that moment. That was why this was for the best. He needed to do something. Paul’s dignity was important. Paul, his friend who was there for him even while the world–his world came crashing down, deserved to keep some small sense of dignity.

Then what was he doing? Wasn’t putting Paul in another room and closing the door a way to hide from it? Out of sight, out of mind. Mark resisted the temptation to do nothing, to sit down and close his eyes. Leaving Paul how he was, like roadkill on the side of the motorway. Doing nothing didn’t strike him as being a better option.

He had to do something. He couldn’t do nothing, nor could he burry his head in the sand and wait for someone else to do something about it. Mark was getting the feeling that there was little chance of help arriving.

Mark knew he had to face the feeling of emptiness and accept the emotions a part of him held back. Paul was dead, but Mark lived and he could give his friend his dignity back by acting like a friend. The act of moving, of laying his friend to rest and closing the door hurt more that any backache ever could.

Some pains aren’t the kind that go away.

Date: 05.02.2025 Entry No: 04

I hooked up a portable generator to my apartment building. So I have electric lights, a working refrigerator plus power for my computer and anything else that needs recharging. I only nearly killed myself twice! Things are looking up. Though it is incredibly noisy and it is a little vulnerable, because for various reasons I can’t see it.

1. It needed to be hooked up to the main breaker which just so happens to be (thankfully) not in my apartment.

2. Though there are downsides to the generator being where I can’t see it there is one upside that trumps all of those. The amount of carbon monoxide produced by the thing would poison me in a few hours.

This necessitates that leaving the relative safety of my apartment to check on and do any necessary maintenance to the generator. Now where did I put my sharpest knife?

-------

That evening, he watched the sun set behind the towers of glass dotting the London cityscape. He sipped a warm beer from a can. It tasted awful. Unfortunately, Paul and Phil’s gift had since dried up outside his door. He resisted as long as he could, but he finally gave in and tore open the cardboard box he had stashed behind the kitchen door. Billie had brought the mockery of so-called beer home one night. Apparently, it was a present from a client. She had been working for months with a pair of local guys to establish a brewery. He shook his head, admonishingly.

The city, from his vantage point, looked like a painting, a snapshot, unchanging. Only days earlier this time of day would have seen crowded streets, the sounds of cars driving up and down the roads, the sounds of couples fighting, of children playing. That was all gone. The city looked empty and abandoned. What the hell happened?

Not a single-

Mark’s heart skipped a beat, his eyes bulged in their sockets.

‘What the fuck?’ He stood up from the armchair placed by the window and shoved his face as close to the window as he could.

A figure stood in the recess afforded by a building’s overhang. Kitted out in all black, the person was too far away for Mark to see a face. He couldn’t even tell whether it was male or female. One thing was clear: there was someone moving down below. The figure moved out and jolted along the wall to the next door, and ducked down into a shadow that did a good job of hiding the mysterious figure. If Mark didn’t know what to look for, this person would be essentially invisible. Mark started and swore as he bumped his head on the glass.

What are you doing? Survival instincts took over, and he too attempted to make his body as small as possible. Then he remembered he was on the tenth floor with the lights off. Bright lights ruined a good sunset. Mark gingerly tugged the curtains closed, leaving a small gap from which to watch whoever was running around on the street.

Mark expected the pain. Since this all started, whenever he saw another living soul, it had tortured him. This time, mercifully, it stayed away.

They waited. What were they waiting for?

Oh, he thought. The body.

A dead body in the middle of a London street wasn’t as common an occurrence as the T.V shows would lead you to believe. The person didn’t appear to want to chance their luck. They turned down an alley between two buildings. Mark, thanks to his lofty perch, could see a black shape sprint from the alley and run across the small green that ran across the backs of these buildings. Trees lined the boundary between this small plot of green from more glass and grey-encrusted boring architecture. He could just make out these trees in the dim light. The sun had vanished from sight and the sky was blueish-black. The figure stopped by one of the trees and the person bent over before taking a sharp turn and moving beyond the point where Mark’s eyes could see.

Mark stayed where he was, blinking in disbelief. The last few days had taken a toll on him. Was he seeing things? Or did he just watch someone leave something under a tree? He hadn’t left his apartment building since the first day after the accident. His body wanted to breathe fresh air again. Paul’s stench was coating every intake of breath with death and decay.

‘Stupid.’ He said. ‘Do you want to die?’

Perhaps he did. Everyone else appeared to be. That was the conclusion he had arrived at. Though if that was true, why had he survived and who the hell was the dark mysterious figure leaving things by trees?

What did he have to lose? What kind of life would it be to carry on living in this tower block, afraid and waiting with dread for the pain to finish him off? At least if he died out there, he would feel the wind on his face one last time.

Mark treated his second expedition down to the front door as a special event. He brushed his hair. How long had it been since he last looked at his own reflection? He couldn’t remember. A day? No, that couldn’t be right? A week? A month? That he had lost track of time so thoroughly worried him and gnawed away at what was left of his sane mind. He donned a clean shirt and wrapped himself up in his thickest coat. He may die out there, but at least he would die warm.

As soon as he pushed out into the London night air, he was glad he had taken the time to bring out his winter coat. The wind at ground level was worse than he could’ve guessed from his apartment. The rows of buildings on either side of the road acted as a funnel, driving the cold, frigid air through it like an unseen icy river. Mark’s teeth chattered in involuntary bursts. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and crossed the road at a jogging pace. He wanted to be in and out as fast as he could. There was still the nagging thought that he was running headlong into a well-laid trap. Mark reached the dark alleyway leading to the open grass area the target tree stood on.

No pain so far, he thought. That’s a good sign. Maybe I will be back sitting on my sofa scoffing down another tin of cold beans tonight after all.

With his back to the wall, he scuttled down the alley. It was so dark that about halfway in, he found himself in almost complete darkness. The sun was long gone. Mark reached inside his coat and in it, his hands found his torch. He wasn’t a total dumbass. He wasn’t about to charge out into the night blind.

Mark emerged out of the gap between buildings and darted across the grass. The ground turned to mush under his boots. Had it been raining? He must’ve missed that. Soon he stood before the tree that was positioned smack dab in the centre of a small patch of green in a jungle of concrete. He shined his light on the base of the old oak.

He wasn’t mad. There was something there. A white sheet of paper propped up against the trunk. It had handwritten notes scruffily jotted down by three different people, judging from the variety in styles.

Have you heard from DJ? He was supposed to leave an update last night. I’m worried something happened to the prick.

-K

Nah, I haven’t, but that guy was late to his own birth. I’m sure he is just doing DJ things. Let’s give him until midday tomorrow. If there’s still no sign, we can panic.

-M

Do you think she took him? I think she might’ve taken him or killed him. There’s a body in the road behind the buildings, a straight shot from here. It didn’t look like DJ, but I couldn’t risk getting too close to check.

-K

‘What is this?’ Mark asked, shaking his head. ‘Who are these people?’

Mark’s light hit something on the ground near the letter. A pen. Who were these people writing messages? Why not just talk? The same questions whirled around in his head. Who? Why?

Mark crouched and plucked the pen from the tree’s roots. He then swiped the piece of paper and held it closer to his face. He put the tip of the pen on the surface of the paper and wrote.

Who are you? What is going on?

-Mark

‘I hope I don’t regret this’.

Did Billie feel it in the end? Did she scream? Throw her own body out of a window to escape it? Yes, she said hurtful things and made him feel worthless towards the tail end of their relationship, but she didn’t deserve that. One consolation was that everyone else he had loved was long dead. Dead before all the recent events. His brother died when he was young, stabbed in a bar fight. Both parents dead. They, too, saw a tragic end at the hands of a drunk driver.

Such morbid musings were ever more common in Mark’s first waking moments.

Mark sat up, his mattress warmed by a long night’s sleep. He grabbed the knife he kept on his nightstand and cut another deep groove into the wall. It was his way of keeping track of the passing of time. There were 10 such cuts on the wall. He didn’t remember every day, and he was damned sure it hadn’t been 10 days. Most of the grooves were probably the result of using the cheap larger in his kitchen to keep himself from thinking too much. Then drunk Mark needed someway to take out his frustration. He thanked god he did so by choosing a wall as his target and nothing else.

By his best estimate, it had only been two days since he left his flat and found the strange messages. These small engravings were a testament. A testament to his survival. He had braved the new world and lived, at least for now. The cuts were Mark’s tiny way of sticking it to the world. The chipped wall said I’m still alive and kicking and I can influence the world, as modest an influence as it was.

He kicked the blankets off his legs and smiled despite it all. Today was the day to find out if there was an answer to the question he had left under the tree. He washed, he ate, and he drank. An extra layer of thick, woollen clothing was his fuck you to the wind that caught him out last time.

The body was still there. Which shouldn’t have surprised him, but Mark still wretched at the sight and smell of it.

It was morning, according to his watch, 11 O’clock to be exact. This made the alley, which before filled him with apprehension and fear, just look like any other shortcut. As he walked, the grass absorbed the soles of his boots like a sponge. He used to like the rain, but now he didn’t have access to heating. Now he dreaded the thought of being caught in a downpour.

The paper sitting in its usual spot against the tree’s trunk was slightly damp, except for that it was still intact. On one side, nothing seemed different. The last words were the ones Mark had added. He turned the page in his hands. There was something new, this sent his heart racing.

What the fuck did you do with our friend?

-K

Mark? Mark Argyle? Is that you?

-M

Mark took a deep breath, rummaged in the grass for the pen and wrote three letters.

Yes.

-Mark

Date: 10.02.2025 Entry No: 05

I'm baaaaack. I apologise for my prolonged neglect in updating you imaginary people who don't really exist on the developments during the apocalypse. I have been really busy. I just could not pull myself away from a novel I was reading. Ha. That was a joke. I was actually trying not to die.

As you know I have accomplished a good degree of self-sustainability, this however was never the end goal. Survival is not the be all and end all of my existence.

No it is not.

I need to fix more than just my little building. Like all things worth doing this is best done with a checklist.

Questions that need answering:

What is going on?
How does this madness work?
How do I cure it?

I already have intel on the first question thanks to my new friend. I simply need to figure out what to do next.

-------

The pile of books wobbled in Mark’s hands. He stepped high to avoid knocking over the other paper towers that littered the floor of the living room like miniature skyscrapers. These had been the lone source of entertainment available to Mark. In his previous life, he complained loudly and often about Billie’s habit of buying multiple books at once, even before she had read the ones they already owned. It made no sense to him when they had lived as if they had all the time in the world. And now that each day dragged along at a snail’s pace, long and drawn out, Mark was glad he had the books. Not only could he read them, but they provided hours of fun outside of their stories.

One word. Organization. Last night he sorted the books by colour, creating an aesthetically pleasing rainbow effect. Tonight, well, tonight was special. It was chronological order night.

Stacked and unlikely to come crashing down, Mark left the books and returned to the clear coffee table. A single piece of paper remained, the one he collected from his most recent pilgrimage to the Tree. There was no longer any space for him to write a message to his fellow survivors, so he had brought it back with him

He wanted to read the messages in the comfort of his home, without the cold whipping against his face and without the danger of being outside.

Unsure, he slowly took a seat, almost as if he was about to receive some bad news. The fear was there, the nagging fear hidden in the darkest depths of his consciousness. What if it was all a figment of his imagination? What if the words he saw or thought he saw were in actuality little more than random streaks of dirt on the page? Everything these people wrote could be a lie his fractured mind was telling him, just like with Paul. Maybe it was all a dream, a seed of hope that he wanted to be true. If he wasn’t alone, what did that mean?

He flipped the page back and forth, each time the words persisted.

Am I really that far gone? He asked. So damaged I can’t trust my own eyes.

Billie. His mind went to her as it often did in moments of crisis. Mark just couldn’t help it. She would tell him to stop asking questions and start finding answers.

Mark held his left hand out in front of his face. Before the reasonable, the logical part of Mark had the chance to object he slid the straight edge of the paper between his index and middle fingers and yanked the paper away.

‘Not a Dream! Not a dream!’

Mark shook his hand in a vain attempt at dulling the sting. She would be calling Mark an idiot right about now. And she would probably be right. What had his act of self harm actually achieved? He may not be dreaming. Does that make his mind anymore trustworthy?

Questions, he thought. Enough with the questions.

He needed to make some hard choices. Mark peered through watering eyes. The page now sported a red smudge. The words glorious in their presence, scrawled in four distinct hands, were still there. His head resting in his hands, his eyes double, and then triple checked to reassure himself. It mattered that they stayed that way. It mattered to Mark. If they were real, if these people were really communicating with him, that meant something. He wasn’t alone and then if they had survived, then maybe others did too.

For the first time in such a long time, Mark felt warm.

After stemming the aggressive flow of blood with a tea towel and satisfied he was at least partially sane, he again read the words.

Oh boy, where do I start? Something happened, and it happened seemingly to every single person on the planet. Or everyone in London, at the very least. You can’t go anywhere near a person unless you fancy getting thrown into a storm of absolute shit. Thankfully, it has a limited radius, meaning at a certain distance it won’t affect you anymore. From what we have gathered when it first happened, most people did one of two things. They either ran until they succumbed to the pain or killed the source of it: anyone near them. K, DJ and I were lucky. It just so happened that we were all isolated when it began. I assume you have a similar story?

-M

It’s my turn. This is how this works, by the way. We leave our reports on a schedule. Mondays and Tuesdays are M days. I have Wednesday and Thursday. DJ had Fridays and Saturdays. Those I reckon, should be left open just on the off chance DJ returns. That leaves Sunday for you, Mark. From here on out, try to only visit the Tree on Sundays.

-K

My first night was one I would rather not relive. But I will say the morning after I woke up on the floor of my apartment and everyone was gone. So what happens now? Do we try to fix this? Regardless, I’m glad I discovered you guys. I really hope your friend is okay.

-Mark

Let me tell you the plan, Mark. We are not the only people left in London. Why would we be? A city of millions, there are bound to others. And we know of at least one other. I was afraid that this person was you when you first left us a message. We are going to rob this person.

-M

She’s a right BITCH. I had a run in with her recently. She’s special. The pain that we all experience when close to others was different, close to her. I think she might’ve had something to do with the disappearance of DJ. Like I said, a real bitch. We need to get into wherever she’s staying and work out what she’s doing.

-K

Mark broke into a tin of preserved fruit. Another much coveted snack from his childhood. He could only stomach half the contents. Thick sugary syrup saturated the chopped fruit. The taste was sickly sweet, leaving him feeling queasy afterwards.

As his body dealt with his meal, Mark mulled over his response. He slipped out a new, blank piece of A4 from a draw and put pen to paper.

I’m in. What’s the plan?

-Mark

Date: 01.02.2025 Entry No: 06

A new month, a new breakthrough. The word genius is overused. What I mean is sycophants have lowered the bar on brilliance over the years. What I just did was make history. Using my own homemade centrifuge with parts salvaged from kitchen appliances I separated blood cells from the plasma. This thing, whatever it is, resides in the plasma. I was able to isolate the sample. I just put that shit in the strongest and thickest box I could find. That stuff is potent. What I did next was crazy. I didn’t really think it through, I just acted on impulse, this instinct often leads to greatness.

I injected the blood cells into my own arm.

I spent an hour with the donor. A whole fucking hour.

-------

It was a shit map, but Mark did his best to follow the crude lines. This was the farthest from his home Mark had been since being outside meant potential death. The place the map was leading him to was relatively close, the cautious approach Mark took still made the walk last a full two hours.

It was, of course, raining. Mark didn’t mind, he hoped the sound would mask his movement and for most of his walk visibility was down to a few feet. The housing estate was expansive, though more squat and horizontal in its construction. It conjured up days of summer, laughter, and blissful ignorance of Mark’s childhood. Council housing, despite the years of graft, long hours and hard work Mark spent to get out of it, his more expensive, middle class environment held fewer fond memories. Far fewer. The estate was one rectangular block of concrete. Stairwells wound up through the grey walls and led to exterior walkways. Doors to individual flats lined the balcony-like walkways. Mark found it curious that most of the doors were closed. Mark saw red, blue and dark green painted entrances to hundreds of abandoned homes. They stood out in their dreary surroundings, as so too he imagined did the people who had lived here.

A black, chest high, iron fence blocked mark’s path. Decorative arrow shaped barbs topped the fence. He followed this barrier, running his hand over the metal until his eyes picked out a gate in the distance. He didn’t rush forward; he didn’t even take a half step closer.

Mark stalled and waited.

A bush, slightly overgrown, obscured his view of all but the top floor apartments. That would’ve made for decent cover except for the fact that the person he was spying on was on the top floor. Mark wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t choose to stand and wait in a direct line of sight of where she purportedly lived anyway, but he was close enough that more sweat coated his body than rain.

Now, he thought as he threaded his fingers through the cold, sodden bars. I wait.

Five doors. That was how far away from this woman he was. It was as near as he felt comfortable getting. If this woman really did something to DJ, then she was dangerous. And if she wasn’t involved, she could be the nicest, misunderstood Samaritan ever, and she was still a threat, simply through being alive.

K in her latest observation report gave detailed notes on the target’s movements. The scary part was that she reported this woman was so erratic in her habits that nothing she experienced matched anything from M’s report. She never did the same thing twice. Never took identical routes. She always varied her pace and direction. This, K said, was how she didn’t notice the woman on the occasion she got too close. K survived and was sure that the woman hadn’t spotted her. Mark still didn’t understand how both K and the woman survived that encounter. Apparently, K only suffered a mild onset of pain symptoms.

Survival must have hardened them all. Mark reminded himself why he was waiting out in the icy rain. To gather intelligence on this woman. To discover how she survives and look for signs of DJ. Then there was the other thing. Despite thinking the idea ridiculous, he gave his word he would keep a lookout for anything the target was using to stave off the pain. M and K were adamant that she was up to something.

Mark rested his arm on the fence, using the branches and leaves of the bush as a cushion against the spikes. To pass the time, he counted the number of bird skeletons visible on the slanted roof. He just realized that a great aerial battle probably happened there. Beaks and feathers clashing as the birds desperately fought against each other. Mark also had the fun activity of every few minutes, shaking off the drops of rain that had collected on his hood.

‘Hey!’

Mark froze. His body locked in place. That was a woman’s voice calling out from behind him. He needed to leave or soon the pain would immobilize him. It was important to see her. He knew it was her.

Who else would it be?

Why weren’t his legs carrying him away?

Where was the pain?

WHERE WAS THE PAIN? Mark despised the pain, it wasn’t that he wanted the crippling pain, but having someone so close and not experiencing it felt wrong.

‘What do you want?’ The voice demanded.

Mark’s body tensed. All his muscles exerted a push on him down like lead weights. Foot steps, slow and deliberate, rang out on the pavement.

Then it hit him. It hit him like a tonne of bricks all at once. He crumbled under its weight. His chin banged against the curb and he reached out, fingers grasping for the fence. His other hand shot up to the side of his head.

Mark struggled to lift his head. A pair of legs wearing tight denim stopped just out of reach. The jeans stopped short of the wearer’s ankles and they were all he could focus on. The rest of the world was a blur.

‘Come home with me.’ The voice cut through his screams with an otherworldly sharpness.

Date: 02.02.2025 Entry No: 7

Against all odds I have done it. Through blood, (not all of it my own) sweat and tears I have perfected my formula, though to do so I have sacrificed most of the space in my flat. Now that I have written that it seems childishly silly. Silly that my only major complaint is a minor inconvenience. I need to celebrate, but how?

-------

Mark blinked, his eyelids flapped in rapid bursts as they fought, raging against the cascade of the too bright light pouring in.

The fall on the solid concrete likely resulted in multiple injuries. A hard, dry crust grew over wounds on the palms of his hands. Dear god, he thought as he winced at the sight of the aftermath. His knees, banged up and grazed, throbbed and the lower half of his face was partially numb.

Everything leading up to his current predicament had a dream-like quality. The images he saw before losing consciousness returned to him gradually in batches. Once his senses settled, the true enormity of his situation came to light.

Bound, striped and gagged, alone in an unfamiliar room, Mark did all he could to not panic. He convulsed violently, straining against the ropes holding him to the chair.

Jesus Christ, he thought. Where am I?

Mark lacked his usual full range of movement. He could see what was put in front of him and no more. His placement made perceiving the scale of the room a challenge, though he guessed it was a space smaller than his living room.

It was a normal-looking family room. In fact, it eerily looked more cosy than his own. Eerie because it looked like a normal home for a normal family. It shocked him that anything came across as being normal these days. Whoever lived there arrayed pillows and blankets across a couple of small sofas. A 30 inch television rested on a stand in the corner. On the pale yellow walls, photos displaying smiling strangers made Mark do a double take. It was all so ordinary.

Mark attempted to pry his arms free of the tight binds restraining his arms. The ropes bit into the skin. After more struggling, his will to take the tearing of his skin burned away like the last embers of a dying fire. The next plan comprised of trying to stand up. His kidnapper had strapped his own legs to those of the chair. Mark leaned forward. The chair didn’t like that, so he collapsed in a heap on the carpet. It stank of weeks’ old dust and the tiny particles immediately irritated his skin. The exertion, winning him nothing except increased vulnerability, had left him with an empty tank.

Mark closed his eyes, opened his mouth and breathed. His desperate gasps sucked in tiny fibres from the carpet, almost choking him.

So this is it then, face down, trapped like a wounded animal. This is how it all ends. Survive the end of the world only to be taken hostage by a crazy lady and choke to death on fluff from the floor. Shit.

Of all the methods of dying Mark thought might befall him, this was absent from his bingo card. Do I deserve better? He asked. Do I deserve this?

And if he survived a little longer, the fate that awaited him wasn’t much of a comfort. Death by torture or quick, simple slaughter were the likely options.

It was then that his overtired, frantic mind trudged up all the missed opportunities and regrets accumulated over Mark’s life.

If only he had more time.

More time to connect.

He yearned not for more time for himself and for Billie, instead he remembered the others. Those he had been too busy to spend time with. Too busy with work. Too busy with Billie. Too busy. He half heartedly attempted to block their faces from coming to the surface. Those who had died when this all began. He refused to say their names. There were too many he had ignored, if he let them, the flood of faces and names would overwhelm him.

He dipped his head and tried to wipe tears away with his shoulder. It was no good. He was no good anymore.

Across the room, a door creaked open. Mark braced himself. The last vestiges of strength in his muscles clenched. His eyes shot open, hyper-focused on what little he could see.

‘Holly fuck!’ a woman’s voice said. ‘You are awake. That’s great. It was getting a little weird having you sitting in my flat naked and unconscious like that. Anyway, good news, I have cured you.’ It wasn’t exactly what he expected to hear coming from someone who had taken him hostage.

She didn’t sound angry or aggressive. She sounded normal, not new normal, but the old kind of normal. Like someone who was conversing with another average person before everything had changed.

Mark listened but didn’t understand, he felt like he should have but his mind rejected the odd nature of what was happening. He dug his chin into the carpet, pushed with as much force as his neck allowed, and glared at the speaker. A short brunette wearing a knitted jumper, sleeves extending past her hands. She wore blue faded jeans that stopped short of her ankles. This was for sure the woman the others spoke about, the one who caused him to faint outside.

‘I…I.’ Mark’s confusion must’ve shown in his expression because the woman seemed to nod in understanding

‘Hush, babe.’ She walked to where Mark lay helpless, her bare feet making soft scuffing sounds. ‘I’ll explain everything. It’s actually rather a good story.’ She pulled her hands to just below her chin and squealed excitedly.

Cured? Did she say she cured me? He thought. Cured of what?

She bent down, resting her head on the carpet adjacent to his. ‘Notice anything that’s missing, Mark?’

She knew his name. How did she know who he was? Then slowly, like an idiot whose mind turned with the efficiency of old rusted cogs, everything fell into place.

The pain. It’s gone. It wasn’t just weak or distant; it was not there at all. Despite another living person being close enough, Mark could smell the mint on her breath.

Closer and closer she came, until it was intimidatingly intimate. Mark shifted as she lay beside him, shuffling closer so her head was in contact with his own. For a moment, the smell of the dusty carpet was masked by the woman’s perfume.

‘I have been so scared.’ She whispered, her breath softly blowing against his skin.

He held her gaze. Too captivated to do anything else. Her eyes were a light hazel, almost yellow, around the edges. The woman caressed his face, tracing some unseen line from his forehead to the cut on his chin.

‘I’m Jen. Nice to meet you.’ Jen leaned in and kissed his lips.

Mark’s eyes widened, more from shock than fear. He couldn’t pull away, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Her lips were soft and pressed on his with hardly any force.

After a fleeting moment, she stood up again.

‘Where am I?’ Mark asked.

‘Our home.’

Faint vibrations hinted Jen was crossing the room. Hands touched his shoulders and Jen grunted and took a sharp intake of air. She did enough that Mark could complete the rest. He pushed off the ground and fell backwards; the chair rocking beneath him. The quick and sudden repositioning left him dizzy.

‘There you go, good as new.’ She said, returning to where Mark could see her smiling. ‘I’m sure there are a thousand questions buzzing around in that head of yours.’

Mark nodded while his eyes followed his kidnapper pace back and forth. ‘It was hard. I did terrible things, sacrifices were made. Literally.’ The smile disappeared. ‘It was necessary. Please understand that before I show you. This was the only way I could create a cure. I needed help. In this mad world we now live in, it was a challenge to find willing volunteers for trials, yet I needed donors. They came to me, you know. I took that as their consent. When everyone else fled, they remained and gave their bodies over for the good of those left behind. It is as if it was destined to be.’

Mark furrowed his brow. What this woman was saying sounded like she was making excuses for some horrific sin she was about to share with him. Every hair on his body reacted while he did his best to not show a look of fear on his face. Fear, anger, or any other emotion held the potential to turn her potentially deranged mind against him.

‘Most of the world’s miracles were born out of times of great need when you think about it.’ Jen forcibly stopped herself from making one more lap of the room and burrowed her face in her hands. ‘What’s done is done. I have no regrets, Mark.’ Jen scraped her slender fingers down her face, her skin stretched and then retracted back into its regular shape.

She let out a drawn-out sigh. ‘I’m tired. I have devoted my life to fixing problems. After fixing this one, I think I deserve a rest.’

Jen grabbed hold of the chair legs and dragged them so that Mark could see the side of the room that had been invisible to him. He clenched his jaw in anticipation, chills weaved over his entire body. He didn’t need to be told what she wanted him to see. Three tables, three white sheets, three bodies. Bare feet stuck out from the white cloth, pale white and blue. Blood bags expertly suspended on hooks sticking out from the wall.

Date: 03.02.2025 Entry No: 8

I’m out! And with my own withdrawal from responsibility, I will retire this journal. In memory of all those who lost their lives at the start of this new world, I will live what life is left to me to the fullest.

Goodbye.

Jennifer Hastings

-------

Hot oil angrily fired out of the pan. A small droplet went as high as Mark’s face. ‘The eggs are almost done.’ He shouted.

‘You call that almost done?’ Jen said from over his shoulder. ‘I don’t think so. I can’t stand a slimy yolk. Yuck!’ She pecked him on the cheek.

‘Fine,’ Mark sighed, though he really didn’t mind. ‘The eggs will be as you wish in a few minutes, then. Don’t complain about being hungry in the meantime.’

‘I won’t. I’m going for a quick shower while you finish, chef.’ She said, the sound of her dressing gown flopping on the floor punctuated her sentence.

Mark glanced over his shoulder just catching her naked figure turn the corner.

-------

Satisfied in more ways than one, Mark let the door slam shut behind him. Daily walks were his new thing. The way he cleared his head and thought about the future. A crunch accompanied each step. He still winced at the sound. Although more and more, he was adjusting. Death was unavoidable in this new world, but thanks to Jen, life no longer had to be.

END