From Darkness Comes: The Horror Box Set (85 page)

Day 111. Losing it.

Today I came close to becoming Moreko feed.

Tired of watching them just stand there, as if mocking me, I grabbed my rifle soon after sunrise and went down the hill. In hindsight it was a stupid thing to do, but at the time, I was just so pissed off that all I wanted was to shoot a few of the fuckers, to feel like I had some semblance of control over what was happening.

As I started walking down the hill, I could see the Moreko work themselves up into a frenzy and a couple of them started climbing the hill. I knelt and drilled one of them with a shot that took half his head off.

The second had advanced only a few feet further when I took him in the chest with one round. As he fell to the ground, I let the adrenaline rush get the better off me and kept advancing. More Moreko began climbing the hill and I kept firing till I was out of rounds and had to insert a fresh clip. When I reached into my pocket, I heard a roar and looked up to see a Moreko just a dozen feet away from me. When I looked back, I realized with a growing sense of dread that I had ventured more than halfway down the hill.

The Moreko approaching me was a giant, standing well over six feet tall and built like an ox. I doubted he had been much of a looker before he had been infected, but the bloody boils on his face and the open gash running down the middle of his chest certainly didn’t add to his looks.

He had his mouth open, baring bloodied teeth, and he charged me. Combat veteran or not, I nearly pissed myself in terror. Things happened in a bit of a blur. I remember trying to insert my clip and dropping it. I remember the Moreko reaching out towards me, clawing at me with his filthy nails. I remember thinking that no matter how else I happened to die, I did not want to get eaten by this dirty monster.

Thankfully I retained enough of my wits to realize that a rifle can still be of some use even without ammunition in it. As the big guy was almost upon me, I slammed the stock of the rifle into his throat.

His snarl of rage turned into a gurgling babble as he staggered back. It would have stopped any human dead in his tracks, but Moreko don’t seem to agree with our rules on pain. He came at me again and this time I gave up the finesse of tactics in favor of brute force, swinging my rifle like a club. I made solid contact, shattering both his skull and the stock of my rifle. As he fell, I saw two more Moreko coming up the hill and I realized that standing and fighting was suicide. I scrambled back up the hill, careful to avoid my traps, and paused only when I had reached the bungalow. The Moreko had stopped about halfway up the hill and one of them lost his footing at a winding turn and stumbled and fell. The remaining Moreko retreated back down the hill.

My little sortie was an unmitigated disaster. I have killed a handful of Moreko, which counts for nothing given the hundred or more who are still standing around the hill. More importantly, I now don’t have a working rifle. I feel like a frigging idiot.

Day 112. On mortality.

The number of Moreko below the hill has increased steadily, doubling at least compared to just a day ago. I imagine word must have spread that the human at the top of the hill is losing it and will soon be served up as buffet lunch for any Moreko who makes it to the top.

Earlier, as I watched them milling about, I wondered what I would do if they did come up the hill in large numbers. Without a rifle, I now have no means of taking them down at long range, and the few my traps may claim would hardly make a dent in their numbers. I would have to take my pistol and take refuge in the attic. As I went through my plan, a thought came to me.

Why am I going through all these exertions to try and stay alive?

I honestly can’t claim to have done much with my life. I pissed away my career and my marriage. There’s probably nobody left to mourn me anyways. If I am to be perfectly honest with myself, I doubt anyone would have mourned my passing even if none of this crap had happened.

There’s not much to look forward to, either. If I am indeed the last human left alive here, then it is just a matter of time before the Moreko get me. Spending my last hours stuck in a dark attic waiting for these monsters to come and tear into me is not the kind of end I would have wished on my worst enemy.

It would be so easy to pick up the pistol, put it to my forehead and end it all. A little bit of pressure on the trigger, perhaps a fleeting sensation of pain, and then nothing more. No more of the damn Moreko.

No more being stuck in this godforsaken bungalow. No more dreams about all the things I could have been and had, but lost largely due to my own stupidity.

Yet I cannot bring myself to do it. Is it cowardice or is human mortality indeed so stubborn that it clings on to us even when dying is perhaps objectively a better outcome than continuing to live?

By the way, the Old Monk is finished, so back to sipping tepid tea to keep myself warm at night.

Day 113. Charge of the Moreko.

I woke up this morning to see something strange. There are even more Moreko around and a dozen of them were climbing up the hill with relative ease. Do the Moreko also learn like we do? I sat there, unable to do anything to stop them, my rifle shattered and my pistol of any use only when the Moreko would be too close for comfort.

The first of the Moreko, a small boy of perhaps no more than ten or eleven, was well ahead of the others. His clothes had been largely ripped to shreds and were streaked with blood. He had been wearing a white face mask with openings for the eyes and mouth, locally called a monkey cap and commonly used as protection against the cold, when he had been infected. Of course, it was anything but white now and was streaked with blood and gore. I watched the boy stumble in mid-stride and then fall off the side of the hill with a scream.

Score one for my traps.

Another Moreko was claimed by hidden stakes, but there were too many of them, and soon they were well up the hill. I raised my pistol when the nearest one was about fifty meters away, and then I put it down. Against ten Moreko, my pistol would be little more than nuisance value and figuring that not attracting attention to myself was my best strategy, I headed for the attic. That’s where I am now, writing in this notebook, the pistol by my side, the room dark other than a small bulb I had rigged to be connected to the generator downstairs. I can hear the Moreko shuffling around downstairs and now it sounds like they’re trashing everything. I can hear the noise of something heavy being toppled and breaking into pieces – must be the TV or fridge. Even if by some miracle I manage to survive, I will now have no more food or water other than the stocks I have with me in the attic, and no means of learning about what is going on in the outside world.

The lamp just started to flicker. The buggers must have got to the generator or more likely, tripped on the wire. Now I sit here and wait, and perhaps start praying after many years. I don’t know if there is a God or whether he even gives a damn what happens to me, but it can’t hurt, can it?

Day 115. Strapped in.

Guess what? I’m in a helicopter. A bloody helicopter!

Just when I thought I was destined to be Moreko food, salvation came in the most unexpected manner. I don’t know how long I lay in the attic, hearing the Moreko downstairs, wondering when they would leave.

After a while, the fatigue got to me and I must have dozed off.

I was awakened by what sounded like a helicopter. It was such an unlikely thought that I told myself I was hallucinating and closed my eyes. Then came the unmistakable sound of gunfire. At first I didn’t know if it was real or if my mind was playing tricks on me but I soon realized the shots were coming from downstairs. I put my ears to the attic hatch and listened, trying to figure out what was going on. The shots gave away a lot – there were a couple of people firing short, controlled bursts – the hallmark of trained men using automatic weapons in an enclosed space as they should be used. Then there were the more numerous sounds of people firing on full auto – spray and pray as we would call it back in the Army. Above all, I could hear the shrieks and screams of the Moreko as they were massacred. I had no way of knowing if the gunmen downstairs were friendly or hostile, but what was certain was that my pistol would be of little use against the kind of firepower they seemed to be packing. So once the gunshots stopped, I opened the attic hatch and came down, placing my pistol on the floor and raising both hands over my head.

‘I’m human. Don’t shoot!’

My cry got their attention and four masked gunmen barged into the room, and I was bundled off to the helicopter in which I am currently sitting, heading off to an unknown destination. The masked men sitting around me haven’t said much, but they refused to let me bring my gun or anything else.

When I pleaded that I was a writer and needed my notebook, they relented.

I’m not sure if I should be elated at being rescued or concerned at being a captive. I suspect I’ll find out soon.

Had to get a quick entry in – the first time I’ve written two entries in one day, but things are moving fast and I thought I’d record what was going on. I’m glad I didn’t tell these guys I was a soldier.

Pretending to be a helpless and handicapped writer suits me just fine for now.

The helicopter flew for about an hour and then set us down near a wooded area. That was when I got a close look at the chopper and also learnt more about the men I was with. The guys who had got me were all dressed in civilian clothes, but the men who greeted them at the landing zone were wearing Indo-Tibetan Border Police uniforms. The chopper itself looked like a fairly rusty old Cheetah from Indian Air Force stocks. So if these guys are ITBP troops and they have access to an IAF chopper, why are some of them roaming around wearing masks? Why do they not seem to be going to any Air Force or Army base?

I confess that when I saw the uniforms, for a minute I was elated as I thought that these guys represented government forces. That would mean that there still was a functioning government and that there was some place that was safe from the Moreko. But now that they’re herding me through dark forests, I’m not entirely sure who these guys are and what their agenda is.

Day 116. A city of tents.

I slept like a log last night. Maybe it was the long trek through the forest or maybe it was the fact that this was the first night in more than three months when I could sleep without worrying about the Moreko outside.

I woke up and got out of the tent where I was sleeping.

There were a couple of uniformed guys around, but they were unarmed and didn’t seem to pay me much attention. So I took a walk around. My first impression that this was some sort of temporary camp was wrong. The tents stretched as far as I could see, and while I didn’t attempt a count, there must have been hundreds.

It was still early, so people were largely asleep, but there was the occasional early riser up and about, and I quickly learnt that not all the inhabitants of this tent city are ITBP troopers, and indeed not all are men. There were a bunch of women washing clothes near a stream and several kids roaming about.

Some of the kids ran past me, laughing and smiling at me, but the adults seemed to be minding their own business and not one said a word to me.

What was strange was that all the troopers seemed to be living in a colony of sorts – a collection of tents set aside from the rest, and with armed sentries posted at regular intervals. The civilian tents were a bit farther off into the forest. Someone has clearly planned this place out.

That can only be a good sign, right? Planning means that someone is in charge, and if this small community has survived and thrived, people elsewhere must have also made it.

As I stood there in the middle of so many people, many of them just now waking up and emerging from their tents, I realized that I had never felt so glad to be among people, even if they are complete strangers.

Three months of isolation in that bungalow surrounded by Moreko can do that to you. When I sauntered back to my tent, I was greeted by a guy in an ITBP

officer’s uniform, and he seemed mildly pissed off that I had wandered off by myself. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but since I was now pretty much at his mercy, I settled for a polite apology and asked when I could meet whoever was in charge. He told me that I was expected. Now I’m about to leave for a meeting with the guy who runs this place. I hope it’s someone who can tell me what is going on.

Day 116. Cloudy with a chance of mortars.

There were four ITBP troopers with me, including the dour-faced officer. We had been walking for about thirty minutes, coming out of the forest and onto some small cliffs. My leg was hurting a bit at the point where the prosthetic leg joined my thigh, but I decided not to show it, especially when the officer asked if someone like me could walk up the hill.

What I wouldn’t have given for a chance to wipe that condescending smile off his face. Anyways, we were halfway up the hill when the first mortar round landed about twenty meters away, exploding harmlessly enough, but certainly startling the shit out of all of us.

Only an idiot stands around trying to listen for the second mortar round. The reason, as Sherlock would have put it, is elementary. Light travels faster than sound, and the round will land before you hear it. Turned out my hiking companions were idiots, since the officer started shouting to his men, asking them if they’d heard anything. I did what any sane man does under mortar fire – I found a nice big rock and hid behind it.

The next round came soon enough, exploding close enough to send a shower of shrapnel slicing through one of the troopers’ legs. He began screaming in pain and I saw that the officer was on the verge of panic. The imbecile had a brand new assault rifle in his hands, as did his men, but instead of returning fire, he was looking around, a vacant look in his eyes. I had seen it before, and I too must have looked like that the first time I came under fire.

His gaze met mine and I ran over to him, wrenching the rifle from his hands. I had no intention of playing hero, but nor did I want to die in this godforsaken place because of the incompetence of my escorts. The third round landed even closer, but didn’t do any damage as we were all under cover.

The way they were zeroing in on us would mean one of two things – either the shooter had us in line of sight or there was a spotter close by relaying our location. I checked that the rifle was loaded, and asked one of the troopers to run to the left and take cover behind a rock there. The man hesitated and I pointed the rifle at him, telling him I would shoot him myself if he didn’t do as I said.

As the man ran, I looked through the scope, sweeping the hills above, and sure enough, I had my man. The glint of the morning sun off his binoculars gave him away and he was so intent on following the running trooper that he didn’t notice that he was totally exposed to me from the chest up. That was all I needed. I put two rounds into him. Actually, I think I may have missed with the first round but certainly after the second he went down. I waited for thirty seconds and when no more mortar rounds came, I clambered up the hill to discover that my victim was wearing a Chinese Army uniform. What the hell is really going on here?

We resumed our trek and reached our destination, a small valley surrounded by armed checkpoints. I am sitting in a tent now waiting to meet their leader. One thing is for certain – after the ambush on the hill, my cover story of being a writer is blown. Whether that’s good or bad is something I’ll have to wait to find out.