Vodka and Coke
‘Ah, Doug,’ the Hawaiian said, shaking his head as he unbuttoned the tobacco leather sheath that held the knife at his waist, ‘This is going to sting.’
Doug’s eyes bulged.
‘No, no, no. I’m good. It’s clean. Please, sir. We don’t have to!’ Doug backed away from where the Hawaiian had watched him preparing their food. The concrete underneath his feet gave way to cracked, broken asphalt.
His hands shot out in front, fitfully flapping. The fragile coaxing did little more than stir the rest of the group for a moment. Some went back to their daily chores, others stopped to watch from a distance.
Marisha, one of the Haiwaiian’s generals, left her partner to check over the scraps scavenged from the burned skeleton of the outlet mall whose shadow they basked in. The Hawaiian flicked his head and Marisha moved to flank Doug.
She cut off his escape but still he backed away, out near where the cars had piled up, towards the remains of an army roadblock from the early days of the Hollow, continuing his mantra of pleas and promises.
‘He got it?’ asked Marisha.
‘Yeah, on his thumb. Saw it when he was plucking the pigeons.’
‘What’s going on?’ Cole said, catching the others off guard. As the newest member of the group he rarely interjected in matters of import. His oversized green jumper swamped him, making his already slim frame look cadaverous. Marisha hadn’t told anyone this but she had seen Cole’s shadow flickering in the firelight a few days before and almost screamed. It reminded her of the old Judderman adverts that gave her nightmares as a child. It wasn’t enough to do that now. She had seen far worse in the last year. Since the Burrow Bugs came.
‘Doug’s been bit,’ said Marisha, moving forward whilst Cole hovered to the right of them, ‘The Hawaiian spotted the pleat.’
‘Marisha, we need to do this now. Just like last time, ok?,’ said the Hawaiian. His words made Cole shiver. He couldn’t tell whether it was the pragmatic delivery or the fact they were speaking about Doug like he was not there. Like he was already gone.
Doug responded to this thought as if Cole had spoken it aloud.
‘Cole, please... please tell them it’s nothing. I’m ok, you know that right?’ His hands stayed held out like a shield. Still flapping like it might push them away if he did it long enough. Sweat tumbled from his brow. Furious blinks and feverish pawing at his eyes failed to clear the silt and revealed his left hand to Cole.
There, under the joint that connected his thumb to his left hand, was the distinct pleat the Burrow Bugs left. Bile burnt up in the back of Cole‘s throat and he baulked. The knife glinted in the Hawaiian’s hand.
‘Fuck! No, don’t kill him,’ screamed Cole. He raced forward and stopped in between. ‘Doug, Fuck! What did you do?’ There was no response from the others.
Doug couldn’t keep pushing the others back. They closed in, quicker now, and a dull bump of foot against car bumper.
‘I’m ok,’ Doug said, 'No one ever knows they're there.’
‘What did you do?’ Cole shouted, ‘The water... You know it’s the water. Why wouldn’t you check it first? You have to boil it hot enough, Doug. You have to!’
Doug finished wiping the grit from his eyes and stared at his pleat, vacant. Then responded in rambles, more to himself than anyone else.
‘It’s the fibres, I think. That’s what the man back home said. The fibres let the bugs in, along the fingers or toes, or elbows or knees, or hips or shoulders. That's where they burrow and then the fungus hollows you out.’
He tilted his head to the side, curiously, like he was studying some newly unearthed artifact.
‘Like termites in a tree. Everything’s ok on the surface but underneath...’ He poked at his thumb, just above the pleat, and the skin, and muscle, and bone gave way like mulch, leaving a doughy indent. Doug let out a floating, humourless giggle that cracked the tension. His eyes focused, his hands shot to his head, and he started to scream.
Cole stood and watched; but the others seized the chance. Marisha barreled past on the right, and, before Cole could move to stop her, the Hawaiian gripped his shoulder with a strong, mollifying hand.
‘You want to help?’ the Hawaiian said, his voice still oddly calm.
‘Yes… yes, sir’
‘Look at me,’ he said, forcing Cole’s attention away from Marisha wrestling their broken companion to the ground. The Hawaiian leaned in close, towering over Cole.
‘Go to Matt. Get some alcohol. Vodka, Whiskey, Absinthe, anything that’s distilled and high proof. Then get some dressing or cotton balls and a washing pot. Got all that?’ Cole nodded and the Hawaiian’s face lit up into an affable, tender smile.
‘Good. Because Cole - and I mean this now - you can help us save him.’
Cole looked back as he left to see Marisha dragging the still screaming Doug across the asphalt, towards the Hawaiian.
When Cole returned a few minutes later Doug had calmed somewhat. The knees of his cargo pants were scuffed and his knuckles were scraped but, aside from that, he looked unharmed. He lay curled up on the concrete trying not to scream again. The Hawaiian stood over him, flanked by Marisha and a newly built fire. The Hawaiian took the pot and placed it over the fire then poured the Vodka in.
‘Good job, Cole. We are going to need your help one more time though, if you really want to help Doug that is.’
‘I do.’
‘Well, I’m going to need you - and Marisha will help so don’t worry - I’m going to need you to hold him down. Make sure he doesn’t move. Can you do that for me?’
Marisha moved across, sitting Doug up and holding him around the back. Cole looked around, scanning the faces in front of him, flitting from the Hawaiian, to Marisha, to Doug, to Marisha and back round.
‘I don’t really want to, sir,’ said Cole, ‘Marisha...’
‘She’s pretty busy right now isn’t she?’ He gestured towards her like he was revealing a game show prize, ‘So, if you really want to help Doug, maybe you could Step. Up.’ The Hawaiian said these last two words like an accusation.
Cole nodded, dumbstruck. Since the Hawaiian had found him that voice had been soothing, but an underlying coldness he’d never noticed had just risen to the surface. It was like finding a particularly suspicious looking mole on his body. Ignoring it could be very bad, but dealing with it seemed much more terrifying.
‘What do you…’ Cole started.
‘Just get hold of his left arm and keep it in place,’ The Hawaiian cut him off. Cole moved in and held tightly. Doug whimpered as the Hawaiian went on.
‘I hope you see this as a moment to learn, Cole. This was always going to sting, but you… you were there to save a friend.’ He stabbed his knife into the pleat.
Doug screamed again, straight down Cole’s ear. He winced almost losing his hold as Doug fought to break free.
The scream drowned out the light popping sound of air that exuded from the open pleat. Decay mixed with something unsettlingly sweet that sent Cole’s stomach churning for a second. It reminded him of when people used to mix Vodka and Coke.
‘That sweet smell is the spores from the fungus,’ the Hawaiian said to Cole over Doug’s screams, ‘Luckily they can't infect us. The Burrow Bugs bring it... when they bite.’
The Hawaiian twisted his knife deeper. Thick ebony ichor poured out as he worked to open it more. Cole turned away and locked gaze with Doug.
His eyes were wide and manic. Red bloodshots sprawled out like rivers and road markers on a map. All roads led to the dopey, dilated pupils that stared back blankly from the pain. Cole looked away again.
The Hawaiian had opened the pleat fully. Blackness spread around the bone where the fungus had stripped away the meat.
‘Have you seen this before?’ asked the Hawaiian.
Cole nodded in response. He was scared he’d throw up if he opened his mouth to answer.
‘And the Bugs?’
Cole shook his head feverishly and the Hawaiian pulled the knife away. He held open the pleat and they waited. Doug had stopped screaming now.
A few seconds passed before, hidden by the rot, a black, six-legged creature, about an inch across, scuttled from the wound, its thick, ugly body squirming and fearful. The sharpened mandibles of its maw clicked together as it tried to make its escape. The Hawaiian put an end to it.
Off to their left the vodka began to boil. The Hawaiian scooped some out in a small steel cup pulled from his bag, and poured it straight into the open pleat. Doug’s scream was worse this time. No bawling howl now, just a weak rasping wheeze.
‘The Burrow Bugs hate alcohol. This should flush out any eggs,’ said the Hawaiian. He twisted Doug’s hand and the inky mixture splashed onto the concrete. Specks stained Cole’s shoes and small white orbs caught in the discharge steamed and burst. Cole thought they looked like frogspawn.
‘Sir, do you have to do this bit?’ Marisha said. ‘It’s already gone.’
‘We are trying to save our friend here, aren’t we Cole?’ the Hawaiian responded.
Marisha turned away and headed back into the camp, her face a mask of disgust.
‘Are you ready?’ said the Hawaiian, his glare boring into Cole. His eyes were aflame, manic, but his voice remained steady and calm. Cole nodded again, entranced, lost. The Hawaiian drove the knife in again and began to scrape away the blackened remains. Doug sat babbling to himself, drifting between wails and glassy disconnect.
When he was finished the Hawaiian nodded grimly then slapped Doug’s face to bring him back around.
‘Doug?’ the Hawaiian asked, ‘Do you know what you did here? You put everyone in danger. And we can’t have that’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘We’ve been moving non-stop and I’m so tired. No one ever knows they're there really. They don't do any harm.’
The Hawaiian laughed and walked over to where he had built the fire.
‘You see that’s where you’re wrong, Doug, because those eggs could’ve hatched and got in our water. You could’ve infected all of us.’
He placed his knife into the flames and held it there.
‘How much food do you have?’
‘About two… three days maybe.’
‘Okay, that’s good. How much water?’
‘Maybe a day.... I’m not sure.’
He wasn’t even looking at Doug, just focussed on his knife in the fire, but when Cole started to loosen his grip the Hawaiian spoke up.
‘Not yet. Keep him there’
He turned around and approached with his glowing blade, ‘Marisha, will go and get you some extra bottles of water. At least enough for a few days.’
The Hawaiian stood lording over them and spoke once more.
‘You did a real good job of helping your friend Cole. You really did.’
He crouched down in front of them now . Cole could smell the metallic heat of the knife in the Hawaiian’s hand.
‘Doug will be leaving us tonight. There’s just one last thing I have to do before he goes. We couldn’t save it,’
He grabbed what was left of Doug’s thumb and began to cut.
About the author
Kyle Wallace is a short story writer, screenwriter and filmmaker from the Wirral, UK. He began writing scripts, short stories and music in his teens before venturing into reviewing film and TV online. His first horror short story, Vodka & Coke was featured in Frisson Comics’ horror zine Knock Knock: Pestilence earlier this year. When he’s not spending time reading books, Kyle likes to spend all his money on more books.
He is currently studying for a BA (Hons) in Creative Writing and Film Studies at Liverpool John Moores University. Kyle recently wrapped shooting on his first short film, Dino’s Bar ‘n’ Kill and, has also been confirmed as the lead screenwriter for the first featured project on Maisie Williams’ new startup app, Daisie.