Pestilence

Eleven- Thud

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" I gasp, grabbing a bottle of eldeflower and burdock fizzy and shake it in my trembling palms. I open the lid and toss it at the now discoloured Mr Miller, shoving the trolley toward him and bolting.

"GUYS!" I holler running toward an aisle I can hide in. Toy aisle! I beam, racing in there, taking hold of a rounders bat. I clamber into the playhouse and gnaw on my stubby nails on fat sausage fingers.

I tremble in fear. My heart's pounding so loudly that I can't hear anything else.

Oh crap! Ryan's stuck in a trolley.

"Guys!" I cry out, crawling from my hiding place. "GUYS!" I shout louder. No response. My eyes widen as I run back into the central aisle, the bit by the tills, where Hilary and Harry shoved Ryan and his trolley at the wall.

Said trolley is now sideways on the floor.

"AHHHHHHH HOLY FUCKING SHIT AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Ryan! Oh crap! I try to follow the sound of the voice but every part of my body is telling me to go the other way.

I have to help Ryan.

No I don't; he's a pig.

But he's a human being and could be hurt.

He has no value to the group.

Neither do I; better me go after him than Harry or Hilary.

I reluctantly move my limbs, stiff due to my fear. I have to move. Slowly I find the courage to edge toward the shouting.

My eyes narrow and a scowl graces my face when I see the sight in the aisle that the screaming was coming from; Ryan Bradbury, sat hunched over, on top of an ice cream cabinet, shovelling ice cream with his hands; shrieking at the intensity of the cold.

"You son of a bitch! I thought Miller got you!" I snarl, squishing the ice cream on his face, storming away from him. Where did I find the tenacity to do that? I shrug to myself. Maybe it was the concept of hating Ryan Bradbury and his ignorance to the feelings of others and my constant endurance of him that I just snapped like a twig.

But wait... if Miller isn't gnashing on Ryan's flesh... then he's still somewhere else in the shop. My blood turns to ice at that thought; I have to get to Hilary and the others.

"HARRY! CASEY! HILARY!" I shriek.

"Tee'?" that was faint. Really faint. Are they on the other side of the store.

"GUYS!" I panic, holding the rounders bat tightly and walking as quickly as my stumpy legs can carry me.

"I'm coming!" I shout.

"Uggg!" oh shit.

"Nope! Nope! Nope! Nope! Nope!" I yelp, jumping backward. I can smell the oranges. He's close. And I'm all alone. Am I going to die here?

I feel a sticky hand on my shoulder. I shriek in alarm, waving the bat around, hiting the owner of the gluey hand. It wasn't Mr Miller. It was that goddamn Tesco employee. The name on the tag says Elvis. Poor Elvis. Poor anybody who has become this, this discoloured skinned mindless being that reeks of citrus.

When Eddis shot that one at the treehouse, the blow to the head killed it. My shot was off. Should I hit this guy; Elvis again? Better safe than sorry I guess. I take a deep breath, eyes firmly closed. Think of a song. Think of a song! Anthing than what I might have to do. I clamp my eyes shut even tighter than before. I swing the bat and hear a dull thud. However my mind is home.

My subconcious is showing me home before Dad died. Flashes of all of the silly moments, like a photo montage. The silly things like when cousin Joey who now works in...London had a pair of bloomers on his head at my fourth birthday party. He was twelve but immature. Even now, I wonder what the hell made him put that on his head.