Bright Lights & Glass Houses

The underground is the worst place to be, she thought, just as the lights from the station faded and the windows turned black. Only the flickery halogen lighting from the carriage's overhead strip kept things in perspective. Perspective and depth, and distance.

  You have to keep your distance these days, she thought.

  Most people no longer took the underground. Too risky and too isolated, which was ironic, she thought, since isolation was the current 'in' recommendation.

  That's fine for the people who can afford it, she thought, and realized that these days she was doing far too much thinking, so tried to push her mind outside of her head and into the blackness of the tunnel.

  The air in the train carriage, much like every other train carriage the girl had been in recently, smelled of disease. The smell had seeped into the stations, the miasma curling in silent tendrils as it crept up the stairs, out of the pit and into the city air. Or so it seemed to the girl. Increasingly, more places seemed touched by that smell. She'd mentioned it to Marla, the older secretary, but the woman had just shrugged and adjusted her blue-rinse perm. Marla did not put much credence in the scaremongering that went on these days.

  At first the papers called it an outbreak. Then an epidemic, moving onto a pandemic, and finally just 'hell on earth'. Denny, the mail lad, had just been to Spain on his holidays.

  "It didn't seem as bad there, really," he'd confided in the girl, in his usual coy and flirty whisper. His cheeks had been flush-red, a usual staple of Denny's conversations with the girl. She knew just how much he wanted to get with her. Maybe, before the thing, she'd have let him if he asked. Now even Denny would be kept at arm's length.

  The girl's name was Jane. Jane Sands. A forgettable name, and one she'd always hated. Jane had become Janey, then back to Jane again. Just Jane. Nowadays, sharing your name with any new acquaintance was advised against.

  Before the thing, Jane had always striven to stand out. A Goth phase in her teens, a punk phase in her early twenties. Her sister joked that she'd regress even further and be a hippy by the time she was twenty five. She'd had black, white, green, pink hair. Pale face or shocking make-up. Piercings; ears, lips, nose, a private one only a select few saw, and a couple others she did not mind showing but probably should.

  Nowadays her wardrobe consisted almost entirely of baggy hoodies and faded jeans. More and more girls her age were adopting the style. It just did not pay to draw attention to yourself, especially if you were female.

  Jane's hair, once a beacon of in the sea of uniformity, was cut short and boyish. Her face was pale, not through powder but a lack of sleep. Make-up had long since been abandoned.

  "You really don't want people looking at you," Denny had warned one day, when Jane had dabbed on a bit of peach lipstick. Denny had been looking though, his eyes traveling across her lips with a sad kind of lust. Jane had almost felt sorry enough to invite him home. Instead she smiled, thanked him, and wiped the lipstick off in the bathroom. She used the same tissue to wipe her eyes.

  Jane had always struggled with being subtle. It had gotten her into trouble as a young one, and she knew that one day it would now. She went through the same thing every time she took the Underground, which was six days a week now. Glances left and right, trying (obviously) not to stare, but scoping out the passengers all the same. One or two, she could relax. Three, the odds weren't great but there was still a chance. But four? Four was bad news, and God forbid if she ever found herself surrounded by more.

  A week ago, she'd been in what she quite privately called a Foursome, and when the train had stopped at the station before hers, a man had been waiting on the platform. He'd taken a step towards the train and peered inside. Jane could hear him counting, even though it must have been in his (and her) head. One, two, three, four, Jane makes five. The man had taken a step back, and as the train pulled away Jane had seen him leaving the station. That had taken guts, she'd thought back then. He got my attention. Who knows who else's attention he got?

  Jane had never seen the man again.

  Tonight, the carriage was a Foursome, and that set Jane on edge. The odds were very bad. One in five people were unacceptable to the disease, the papers had said. That meant almost certainly, a potential Watcher was riding the subway that night.

  Jane pretended to study her iPhone, all the while watching the other passengers. Dead air passed through steel ribcage as the train hurtled forward, motes of dust and whatever else, dancing and twirling unseen, invading the synapses of her fellow travelers. They all just looked like people. The sickness could be hiding in any one of them.

  They're probably thinking the same, including me in the equation, Jane realized, not for the first time. The thought comforted her somewhat.

  At the end of the carriage was a businessman. He was sitting with his right shoulder pressed against the support rail, desperately trying to pass off the illusion of reading his newspaper. Every now and then, Jane saw his eyes flickering around the carriage. He had a glazed, vacant look. The man was sweating, a small droplet of perspiration tracing its way down from under his comb-over, catching on his eyebrow then carrying onto his cheek. Jane did not see him looking at her, but that did not mean he wasn't.

  Next up was a couple of teens, holding hands. Jane hoped they'd been together for a long time. They were both dressed in black; understated, but somewhat noticeable anyway. Jane's own hoody was a nondescript gray. Black was inadvisable these days. Her teenage self at the back of her mind admired the kids' rebellion, but the newer, more sensible part of Jane was mentally chastising them for their choice of attire.

  The two kids kept their eyes on the ground. Occasionally the girl's glance would shoot off to one side, not looking at anyone in particular.

  The final member of the troupe was a large black woman who seemed to have a perpetual half-smile on her face. Her hair was tied back with a modest scarf, her body wrapped in a thick coat. Non-Caucasians seemed to suffer worse, the papers had said. They drew more attention. The city, once a thriving multicultural melting pot, had soon regressed back into a predominantly white population. Jane missed the days of walking down the street and seeing people from all cultural backgrounds. You never see Asians any more, either, she thought. For some reason, the Watchers picked up on them first. Most of them had left the city long ago.

  The black woman was reading a book. It seemed to Jane that her interest in the tome was genuine, but one could never be sure these days. Jane felt the reassuring bulge of the knife against her thigh. She knew it was contraband, Denny had warned her enough times, but it made her feel more secure. Maybe an 8 inch blade was excessive, but the man in the Hunting & Fishing store had seemed to understand when she bought it. He had asked no questions.

  The proposal to legalize concealed weaponry was taking its time. The public demanded it, the government procrastinated. Jane could not understand it. One needed to protect oneself more so than ever. It was just another piece of the government's puzzle of denial. They never outright confirmed the existence of the disease, no matter how many official scientific reports were issued. They said things were under control. More lies.

  The Watchers could be anyone. They could be anywhere. And all one could do was look out for the signs. The most obvious was the watching. They would stare, stare, and stare some more. They became fixated on someone, and when they did, carnage followed. Tremors, sweating, a pallid complexion and skittish behavior were all signs too, but nowadays they applied to almost anyone. As the disease spread, it became harder to pinpoint the infected.

  Jane had never been a fan of horror movies, but an old boyfriend - what was his name? She could no longer remember – had been a big fan. Jane had always found them dull, pedestrian.

  Reality made this factual. The monsters weren't the undead, the wolfmen or the creeping horrors. People did not rise from their graves to feast on the flesh of the living. The monsters were living; they were alive, at least in some capacity. They lived amongst the population, waiting, watch
ing and then, when they were content to watch no longer... they snapped.

  It was a disease of some sort though. Something in the brain, swelling or bleeding or confusion or something. Jane tried to drown the science out. What did it matter why it happened? One just had to know how to avoid it.

  "It'll be Christmas soon," a female voice said. Jane, along with the rest of the passengers, jumped. This had never, ever happened before. Nobody had ever spoken. It just wasn't what you did any more. Conversation drew attention and was best avoided, the papers said.

  It was the black woman who had spoken. Her book was away and in her hands she held an unfinished red scarf. Knitting needles clacked as she spoke. Sharp steel needles. Jane swallowed hard. Who was the woman talking to? She was looking at nobody in particular.

  "Is everyone ready?" the woman asked. She chuckled. "Of course you are. All young people."

  Jane stole a glance at the businessman at the end of the carriage. He was sweating heavier now. Jane looked down and realized her hands were shaking. She was terrified. This just wasn't normal. This wasn't how things worked any more. What the hell was the woman playing at?

  "I'm knitting this for my grandson," the woman told the carriage, holding the scarf up. Nobody spoke. "He lives in Camden Town. He's only four, bless him. Any of you got children? No, of course not, you're all too young."

  Again, Jane looked at the businessman. He was not too young to have kids. He looked to be in his forties, at least. Had the woman not noticed him?

  "I have a young sister."

  Jane's head snapped around. It was the teenage girl. Her boyfriend (was he?) hissed something under his breath, and squeezed his girlfriend's hand. He looked fretful. The girl shook her head quickly and removed herself from his grasp.

  "Chloe," she said. "Her name's Chloe. She's two."

  "And what's your name, dear? I'm Bella," the older woman said. Her voice was warm.

  "Elizabeth. Beth," the teenage girl replied.

  "And what about your dashing young friend?"

  For a moment, Jane thought the boy would stay silent. Then he scowled and softly said "Lee."

  "Nice to meet you Beth, Lee," Bella said. "What about you?"

  Jane was intently studying the floor of the train carriage. With a start, she realized Bella was talking to her. She considered ignoring her. For a moment, she tried.

  "Yeah, what's your name?" Beth asked. Her voice was so tiny, so sad, that Jane could not help but look up.

  "Jane," she said, and tried to smile. She glanced over at Bella, who in turn was trying to covertly look at the businessman. When she saw Jane looking she turned back to the center

  "Jane's a pretty name," Bella told her, even though Jane thought it wasn't. "Do you have any brothers or sisters, Jane?"

  Jane figured she had a brother, somewhere. She hadn't heard from Luke in years. She didn't even know, in fact, if he was still alive. Nowadays there was a good chance he was not.

  "None," she lied. "Only child."

  "Me too," Lee piped up. He sounded more enthusiastic now. The whole carriage felt lighter, the smell dissipating somewhat. Now it just lingered near the end, near the businessman. Jane stared at him for a moment, then glanced at Bella. Bella was looking at the man too.

  Suddenly, Jane realized what was going on. The man was a Watcher. Bella had noticed something the others had not. She was drawing them into a group, trying to get their trust so they all banded together. That had to be it. Bella herself could not be a Watcher, they never spoke... did they?

  There had been no reports ever, the papers said, of a Watcher attacking a group. They always went for lone targets, ripping, biting and tearing until they were pulled away, usually to be met with a bloody end at the hands of one of the many strike forces dotted around the city. The strike forces were never more than five minutes away from any given location, the papers said. Still, some Watchers got away. Others hid. Corpses were sometimes found in alleys, or in the underground tunnels, or even in buildings, the guilty Watcher long-gone.

  Jane wondered if the businessman had killed before. He was scratching his knee and pretending not to notice the others.

  They're getting smarter, Jane thought, keeping one eye on him. She could see his chest rising and falling in a shallow motion, and felt sweat trickling down her neck. A chill ran through her.

  "Hey," Bella said, and Jane knew she was addressing her. She looked around.

  "What do you do?" Bella asked. The teenage couple were regarding her with interest. Jane smiled at them without making eye contact.

  "Secretary," she muttered. Her voice sounded hoarse and alien. Her heartbeat was growing rapid, pounding in her chest. She was terrified.

  "Where do you work?" Beth asked. Jane felt a wave of suspicion. Why did the girl want to know? Her tone was friendly enough, she was no doubt asking in innocence... but what if the businessman got away? What if he was listening, then found Jane at her place of work one day, when Marla was out, when the suits were at lunch? Jane imagined his hands groping her, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her stomach, his mouth moving in towards her neck. She shuddered.

  "Just some office," she told them. "Nothing really exciting."

  "I work in a record shop," Lee said. "And I play guitar."

  "He's in a band," Beth added.

  "Nothing big," Lee told them, sounding embarrassed. "Just a local thing."

  Jane wondered if she'd ever heard his music. It seemed a strange thing to do nowadays, play music. How did they gig? Just in private?

  "I'm retired now," Bella told them all. "Just been shopping."

  Jane looked at the floor by Bella. Sure enough, there were a few plastic carrier bags there. She had not noticed them before.

  Her eyes returned to the businessman. He had his head in his hands. His body rocked slightly as he tapped one foot silently on the ground.

  "Jane, look at this." Bella's voice, calling her. Jane turned. Bella was holding out what seemed to be a diary. On the front was a crudely-drawn cartoon girl, the word 'princess' plastered across the girl's torso. Jane reached out and took the diary from Bella's outstretched hand.

  "I've bought this for my niece," Bella told her. "Do you think it's suitable?"

  Jane flicked through the book. It was an empty teenager's diary. One page was marked 'secret crushes', another 'homework'. The rest was divided into months and days.

  "Yeah it's nice," Jane assured her. It was hard to focus on the book; her hands were still shaking. A glance at her watch told her that the train would be pulling into a station any moment. Not her stop, but the one before. The one where she'd seen the man who didn't get on. Jane decided she'd get off there. Maybe everyone else would too, leaving the businessman, the Watcher, to go on alone.

  As she reached across to Bella to hand the diary back, Jane's eyes fell on the businessman one last time. He was looking at the ground, then turned to face her. Their eyes locked. Jane could see his lip trembling.

  The train was slowing down.

  The man opened his mouth, and Jane's heart pounded once, hard, in her chest. He was watching her. This was it. She had to protect herself. Do or die.

  As she lunged forward, someone screamed quietly. Maybe it was her. The diary fell from her hand and landed on the floor with a thud. The knife nicked her thigh as she pulled it from her waistband, darting towards the businessman. He was rising from his seat, his arms outstretched, pointed towards her. From behind, Bella was saying something in a calm voice. Jane ignored her. The businessman was standing up just as Jane reached him, the knife clutched tightly in her clammy palm. Without even pausing, she dove it forwards, the blade sinking into the man's stomach. She heard a grinding noise, felt some resistance as the sharp edge caught on the man's hip bone. His lips curled into a snarl and he howled in pain.

  Jane twisted the knife, and balling her left hand into a fist, punched the businessman in the jaw. She felt something brittle snap beneath her fingers. A thin spray of blood and
spittle flew from the corner of his lip, catching Jane in the face. Her vision clouded with fury.

  Jane barely noticed the train stopping as with a sharp tug she pulled the knife sideways, cutting into the man's belly. Warm, viscous liquid flowed over her wrist and the man collapsed forwards and downwards, pulling Jane with him. She rolled and the body rolled with her, blood now bubbling from his mouth. His eyes were glazed but open wide, staring directly at Jane. Watching her, even now. Behind her, she could hear someone crying. Probably Beth. Jane's breathing was heavy, the adrenaline flowing through her body along with relief. It was okay. She'd survived, and taken one of those bastards with her.

  Jane barely noticed the train doors opening, or the sound of heavy, regimental footfalls racing up behind her.

  "I tried to distract her!" Bella was calling. "I saw her looking. I tried to..."

  "Ma'am, please," a voice said, just as Jane felt a hand grip her shoulder tightly. She was wrenched backwards off the Watcher, her knees banging painfully against a seat. Someone was dragging her across the floor. Her hoody rode up around her stomach and she tried to pull the top down. One must not show flesh, the papers said. It sends them wild.

  "We got one," a man said, above her. His grip tightened, his fingers pressing into her collar bone, and Jane thrashed her arms in panic. "Tore a man apart."

  Jane tried to look the man in the eye, but he held her down.

  "Stop!" she tried to say. She had to explain. "He was after me..." But no words came out, just a low moan. Her chest was too tight, her heartbeat too fast.

  "You might want to look away," Jane's captor said, to someone who was not Jane. "This is never pretty."

  Jane was thrown forward, coming to rest against the businessman's body. His eyes stared into hers and all she could do was watch his dull gaze. Cold steel pressed against her temple, and somewhere far off Jane heard a click.

  VII - The Optometrist