Lurk

Chapter Twenty-Three

Day 1

15: 32

“I probably should’ve told ‘em at the time, but it didn’t seem like the right place.”

The control room was eerily quiet, with just two whispering voices echoing off the walls. Lurk and White sat opposite each other on collapsible metal chairs, while the deceased body of Smith stewed peacefully in the corner. Lurk had propped him up on his backside, and also made the soldier’s grace to close his eyelids.

White’s curled the corner of his upper lip. At least you look dignified, Smithy boy. With the nerves and muscles completely dead, Smith’s look of horror had gradually decreased into a calm and emotionless face. White hadn’t really ever understood the phrase “rest in peace”, but as his old friend’s body sat there in bliss, his mind was enlightened.

All the remaining weaponry and supplies were laid out in between the two, kept strictly organized by the man in the mask. The categories of firepower were easy to identify: secondary (two Berettas), primary (L96A1 and two AKs), and explosives (six grenades and an unlit cocktail Molotov). They weren’t typical items in the army’s arsenal, particularly as far as flaming bottles of whisky went, but Lurk had devised a theory that these were pieces of evidence. Security within the regiment was top priority, so whenever a soldier went rogue, everything which might be evidence of their wrong-doing was transported back to base.

And it might be mine...

“You were saying...?” White asked, biting off the end of a Cuban cigar he’d scavenged from a back pocket.

“What?”

“That thing you were about to say... about not telling the lads something important...”

“Oh yeah, so as I was saying.” Lurk cleared his throat for a second, but the phlegm just splattered against the inside of his mask. “I couldn’t help but notice that Barry’s blokes had bite marks, and there’s only one species around these parts that could make a dent that big.”

“Which is what?” White’s face changed to self-shame as he realized his stupidity. “Ah, right. But do you really think it’s like that? They weren’t acting strange – at least as far as I noticed.”

Lurk got up to his feet, and began to pace slowly around the room’s perimeter. His mind was in a dark, reminiscing place, and White felt like he was sitting in a gothic theatre as the pacer began to mutter.

“It always looks like a harmless scratch at first. You get some stitches, patch it over and then forget all about that poisonous substance in your veins.” He stopped. “But it’s there – always.”

White shuddered in his seat. The path this narrative was taking could only be of a disturbing nature, yet he was compelled to listen, and hear what this broken man had to say. It was the most he’d spoken since the outbreak, and probably the only chance White would get to see inside the monster’s mind.

“The infection, much like a simple yawn, is contagious. Apparently there’s some way of isolating the pathogen, and killing it before the harbourer turns...” Lurk’s voice faded out, his throat tightening as images of horror and gore plagued his mind. “But what you can’t heal is the mind. No matter how hard you try...”

It took a little time for the underlying point to become clear, but when it did, White wished that Lurk hadn’t even opened his mouth. There had to be a reason that he knew so much about the Lurkers... and why the words sounded so very personal. His head was now sunk, his back turned to White as he expressed an invisible emotion behind the mask. Was it sadness? Grief, perhaps...?