Jed peered through the rain-speckled windscreen of his old Honda. The wipers barely worked and needed changing; likely a consequence of being in long-term storage. A month. He’d been away for work before: a weekend in Anderstorp, one night in Frankfurt, three nights in Paris. This time it’d been a month. A month in the sprawling concrete jungle of Berlin. Dexter, his collie, was curled up in the passenger seat, avoiding eye-contact. He’d been ecstatic when he called at his parents’ place to pick him up, but now Dexter appeared to be making a stalwart attempt to let him know that, in no uncertain terms, he was cross with him. Jed pulled into the drive of his small detached house, grabbed his case from the boot and let Dexter out, who slunk through the rain alongside him as he climbed the steps to the front door.
There’d been news that a major meteor shower was expected tonight, but the black clouds and torrential rain meant there’d be no chance of seeing anything. Once inside, Dexter shook the rain off, then plodded into the kitchen. ‘Food, always food,’ Jed thought. He followed him and opened the fridge. The smell hit like a hammer, rancid and pungent. He’d left in a hurry, and the grim contents confirmed it. Rotting veg, opened packs of meat with a cloud of mould crystallised on in places. He’d have to rid out, and he’d have to go shopping. Tomorrow, it was late; he was tired—tomorrow.
He saw a lone can of off-brand cola and thought about taking it. Caffeine before bed seemed a bad idea, though, so he left it. Dexter was sitting by his food bowl and water bowl and looking at Jed expectantly. Jed opened a tin of dog food from the pantry and emptied it into the food bowl, then filled up the water from the tap. He thought about making a coffee or tea, but again—caffeine. So he filled himself a glass of water from the tap and placed it on the table.
Sitting at the table, he watched Dexter devour his Pedigree Chum ravenously, making soft, satisfied snorting sounds as he did. It smelled disgusting, but still far better than the rank aroma of pure decay that had overpowered him when he’d opened the fridge. He shuddered at the memory. Checking the cupboard, he found an already opened bag of slightly soggy tortilla chips. He sat back at the table and ate and drank. By the time he was halfway down the bag, Dexter had finished his food and was pressing his face into Jed’s crotch, looking pleadingly at the tortilla chips. Jed finished the bag, sharing them with his dog, one for Jed, one for Dexter until there were none left.
When he finally headed up the stairs, Dexter scampered after him. He’d been on his feet, on a plane or in a car all day, so by the time he made it to his bedroom, his eyelids were heavy and he couldn’t stop yawning. He collapsed onto the bed. Dexter jumped up and curled up alongside him.
An earth-shattering crash broke the silence of the night. Jed felt the bed flick into the air, then crash back onto the wooden floorboards. He yawned and looked at the clock — 3:45am. He had to get more sleep. He buried his face in his pillow and willed himself to sleep. It didn’t take long.
When he finally awoke, his phone was chirping on the bedside table. He reached over, grabbed and stared at the screen:
Emergency Alert
A RED Warning has been issued.
An extraterrestrial body with unknown contaminants has made contact in your area. Do not leave your house until further notice. The object struck the water treatment plant, so do NOT drink any tap water or rainwater. Await further instructions.
Great. Jed got up, picked up his glass of water, and made his way down the stairs. Dexter had gotten up before him. He was drinking thirstily from his bowl, lapping and wagging his tail. When he heard Jed approach, he looked up, smiled, then went to paw at the back door. Jed shook his head. ‘Sorry, Buddy, we’re not allowed out at the moment. Hope you can hold it.’
The house was cold, and the rain pitter-pattered against the windows. The air had a strange smell to it: earthy, but chemical. Jed approached the sink; he thought about drinking the cola but decided he’d save it for later. He finished the glass of water and held it in the sink to rinse it. As he ran the tap though, the water ran grey and cloudy. It smelt like ozone and a chemical he couldn’t place. He swirled the glass and tipped the contents. The liquid stuck to the side of the glass and dripped like viscous ichor as he tried to get the dregs out. It looked disgusting. He heard a faint buzzing noise and saw a fly land in the freshly poured water in the sink. It skipped about in the water, then tried to fly again, but behaved strangely. It flew erratically, zig-zagging wildly and crashing into the tap, the cupboard and the window, before landing on the sill. Jed peered at it. It was waving its legs and wings madly, and appeared to take a bite out of its own wing, then another from its leg. He leaned closer and watched it desperately trying to devour its own limbs. Before long, it had consumed all that it could reach of its own limbs and writhed pathetically on the sill, desperately trying to reach to take another bite out of itself.
Jed walked back into the living room, deeply unsettled. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. There was a news reporter warning people to stay indoors and not to drink tap water or rainwater in his area. The sound of a howling, screeching cat drew his attention. He stepped up to the window and looked out. The neighbour’s cat, a ginger tom who was probably the father of half the unwanted kittens on the street, was writhing on the lawn. Its eyes were dark and cloudy, and it had its front paw in its mouth, gnawing savagely at it. It bit huge chunks out of itself, then chewed, its face a vision of ecstasy as it swallowed.
Jed watched mesmerised as the cat reduced his front left paw to a bloody, mangled stump and continued consuming itself ravenously.
He looked at Dexter, who was pawing at the back door with some urgency. He thought about the off-brand cola in the fridge. Maybe he had a beer or some soft drinks in the pantry? It was worth checking.
Double-checking the fridge, there was literally just rotten food and a solitary can of cola. A half-finished bottle of milk remained, but it smelled pungent. He’d have to clear it out. Now wasn’t the time. The image of the cat furiously consuming itself with a manic hunger that seemed to come from hell itself haunted him. If you took the food recycling out and it got on your skin, were you safe? He heard Dexter bark, and looked to see him clawing at the back door with his paw. ’Sorry boy, can’t go out now.’
He thought back to the glass for himself and the bowl he’d filled for Dexter last night. Had it been safe then? Dexter was pawing at the door and whining, his ears flat and his eyes betraying a desperation about them. He held up his hand and looked at it. He stared at his palm and fingers, unable to imagine being able to bite into them. He went to the windowsill to grab the remote and saw the cat again. It was a bloody mess now, its limbs and tail shredded and torn to pieces; it was now desperately trying to chew through its own torso. It was writhing in a dark red pool of blood now and weakening. As it slowed, he noticed something new. The cat’s eyes grew darker, until they were pitch black and soulless, then streams of black goo escaped the cat’s eyes like streaming tears of tar, The streams ran together and formed a pool, the pool seemed to move on its own volition, then the centre of the pool bubbled like a geyser and the pool sprayed into the air, tiny invisible droplets being carried by the wind. He looked back at the television; it was showing people in hazmat suits, soldiers, a bald scientist calmly spouting some jargon about how unprecedented this was and telling people to avoid leaving the house or coming into contact with tap or rainwater. In contact with? This was an escalation.
Dexter barked again, pawing at the door and looking expectant. ‘Shh, be good. Not now.’
Dexter whined. Jed went to the pantry; there was a nearly empty bottle of white wine. He couldn’t remember when it was from, but he unscrewed the cap and had a sniff. The smell was like pickled onions and made him wince, and his eyes water. He looked at Dexter’s water bowl. It was nearly empty. The sound of trickling diverted his attention, and he looked up to see Dexter with his leg cocked against the back door. Bright yellow pee was hitting the back door and spraying his black and white fur. He thought about scolding him, but quickly changed his mind and knelt down, opening his arms. Dexter finished peeing, then plodded over and licked his face. He wrapped his arms around the dog and cuddled him. He had to phone his parents. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He stared at the screen — no bars, not even the SOS Emergency. Thirst was building now. He’d spent most of the day travelling yesterday. The glass of water had not quenched his thirst. He looked at Dexter’s now empty water bowl. The tap was calling to him. He was feeling desperate for a glass of water; he gritted his teeth and thought about the cola. A little, he could drink a little and save some for later? Caffeine wasn’t ideal for dogs, but he’d have to share it. After releasing Dexter from his embrace, Jed went to get the cola. It was a cheap brand and would taste powdery and of chemicals, but it was better than nothing. He sat cross-legged on the floor and opened the can, taking a big swig. Dexter seemed to notice and nudged his water bowl towards Jed with his nose. Jed took the hint and started pouring, but Dexter, impatient as ever, rushed in and knocked the can from his hand. Some went in the bowl, some went on the floor. When Jed picked up the can, there was barely any left in it. Dexter seemed unfazed; he was lapping at the water bowl, now half filled with water, half with cola.
The rain was relentless and the air smelt of sulphur and brimstone. He heard a scream from outside, followed by maddening laughter. It sounded as if it was coming from further up the street. He crawled to the settee and slumped onto it. Dexter leapt up and snuggled against him. He was tired; he was thirsty; the best thing to do would be to sleep and hope whatever this was would be over when he woke.
When he woke, he noticed Dexter was gone. He looked around in panic and saw him lapping up the last of the cola from the kitchen floor. That was good. He was so thirsty, though. He climbed to his feet and entered the kitchen. He filled the kettle with the grey, cloudy water from the tap and put a tea bag in a mug. Boiling it. Boiling it would sort it out. He put the kettle on and waited. When steam appeared from the spout of the kettle, Jed held the button down a bit longer to keep it boiling. Soon the button was getting hot and difficult to hold, so Jed let go, watched it spring off, then used a tea towel to pour the water. It ran crystal clear as he started to pour, but as the bag floated to the top, the water seemed to turn just a tiny bit grey, barely perceptible. He took a teaspoon from the drawer and stirred, paying close attention. He didn’t like tea without milk, but whatever was in the milk bottle in the fridge had lived its life as milk and was now in the glorious afterlife of being something green which smelled fermented. He swirled the cup and peered at the liquid. As he did, he jumped. Dexter had slunk over and rubbed his head against his knee. The mug slipped through his fingers and shattered on the tiled floor, sending tea spraying everywhere. Dexter leapt clear and looked at Jed accusingly, then bowed his head and started lapping at the floor. Jed’s heart raced; he dived to the floor, pulling Dexter’s head up. ‘No! Bad dog! Not good!’
Dexter looked at him confused, struggled a little, then seemed to calm down. Had he drunk any? Had he drunk enough? Was there a safe amount to drink? Jed carefully pulled Dexter into the living room and shut him in. The mop was in the cupboard under the stairs. He got it out and started soaking up the spilled tea, muttering, cursing under his breath. Afterwards he poured neat bleach onto the floor and scrubbed it with the mop. He went over it twice. The smell was overpowering and stung his eyes and nostrils, but he couldn’t rinse. He was sweating. He chugged the last of the Coke and wiped his brow without thinking. Instead of wiping off sweat, his sweater sleeve doused his head with tea, soaked up from when he’d rushed to grab Dexter. He snapped his arm away in horror. He could feel the liquid on his face. It felt different, alive, almost. He grabbed the tea towel and began desperately wiping his head and face, trying to dry them perfectly. He held his lips together tightly. Even wiped dry, his skin felt like it was crawling on his face. He scrubbed harder, whimpering. Then he heard a yelp from the living room.
Jed opened the door and stared in horror. Dexter’s eyes had turned dark and cloudy; he’d bitten his front left paw off and was chewing and swallowing blissfully while blood drained from the torn stump onto the carpet.
Jed grimaced and whimpered, “No” under his breath, diving to the floor and hugging Dexter, trying to get the severed paw out of his mouth. Dexter turned to him, a visage a mask of rage, snarling and snapping. The paw finally came free, and Jed threw it into the corner in disgust. As he did, Dexter wriggled free and locked his jaw on the other paw. He ripped and tore at his own limb, biting hard and severing it while Jed desperately tried, but failed to stop him. His eyes were flooded with tears, and his heart was racing. He struggled and fought with Dexter, but to no avail. Just as he thought he was saving Dexter’s other front paw, Dexter clamped his jaw onto Jed’s hand and bit his little finger and part of the hand off. Jed screamed in agony and clutched the gaping wound, while Dexter returned to chewing off his other paw, his face a picture of bliss.
Blood was oozing from Jed’s wound now, and he was feeling faint. He tried to sit up, but he felt weak. Weak and hungry. He looked in horror at Dexter, devouring himself limb by limb, but suddenly it made sense. He felt ravenous; he thought about what was in the fridge, but knew it was all rotten. He had some tins in the pantry, but then he looked at his wounded hand. Dexter had ripped his little finger off and swallowed it along with the adjoining metacarpal. It’d left a gaping ragged wound, oozing blood in pulses as his heart beat, pumping the blood out of his body one gush at a time. It was strange. It looked so appetizing. Part of him knew it shouldn’t. This was wrong. It was wrong on so many levels. But then he was so hungry; his stomach growled and he felt a pang of hunger. He saw his hand oozing blood, and his mouth watered. It was irresistible. He looked up at Dexter; he’d chewed his front legs off completely and was working on one of his back legs. He looked so content and satisfied. He looked back at his mutilated hand. His vision was getting cloudy for some reason. It didn’t matter; he was hungry. Maybe just a taste? He could taste it. There’d be no harm in that.
~fin
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