Upon stepping into the dank inn, Inspector John Shelley caught wind of a putrid smell--one that most of his kinsmen would have become used to after so many years in an occupation such as this. Passing by uniformed constables, he finally saw the body, riddled with bite marks and missing sizeable chunks of flesh.
"What do you make of it, Inspector?" Sergeant Bailey inquired, electing to turn his head away from the gruesome scene. "Could it be that the Ripper fellow has moved out of Whitechapel?"
He eyed the body, studying the grimy brown dress very closely, thinking, for just a brief moment, that he saw the unfortunate woman's finger twitch. He quickly discarded such an instant as a mere trick of his own uneasy mind. "Judging by the clothes, she is indeed a prostitute, if you'll excuse my bluntness, but our friend 'The Ripper' does not bite," Shelley replied. "In spite of what the newspapers tell us."
"So then it's merely an isolated incident?" asked a young Constable, Smith, as he walked up next to him.
"I don't know what normal man decides to chew upon a woman but once and returns to a mild-mannered life." Shelley replied, pointing at the various bite marks. "Perhaps your upbringing is different from mine and this is some youth trend I am ignorant to." The others erupted in laughter at Smith's expense. Shelley continued, "It's more likely that we have two ungainly figures prowling the streets of our fair London.
It was at this point that Shelley saw her finger twitch again. Knowing Smith was also looking at the body, he turned to him. "Did...did you see-" Shelly began to say to Smith just as the woman's hands sprang to motion and wrapped around Smith's legs as she thrust her teeth into Smith's neck. Crimson poured onto the floor of the inn as the policemen struggled to restrain the women. Sergeant Bailey pulled out his pistol and fired a bullet into the poor woman's head. As the woman slumped back to the floor, Smith fell onto his back, screaming as he squirmed to get away from the body.
"Nobody is going to miss a carnivorous whore," said Bailey.
As the other policemen attended to their compatriot, Shelley paused to examine the pool of blood, indistinguishable from that of a normal person, on the floor of the inn.
* * *
The coroner's office contained the same odor of the dead as the inn. At least, the Inspector thought, it belonged here.
"Gentlemen. You've met Miss Perkins," William the coroner greeted Shelley and Bailey as he pulled away the sheet from the body as if unveiling a fantastic invention.
"Shelley insists that it's not the work of that horrid Jack the Ripper. What do you think? Is the Inspector wrong or do we have two demons roaming about?" asked Bailey. It seemed to Shelley that Bailey would have liked to believe all the problems in the British Empire stemmed from the butcheries of a single man. However the world was simply far too complicated for such a silly notion to be true and Shelley knew it. Bailey was brash and naïve, but not simple.
"Look at her body, Alan," said Shelley, addressing Bailey by his first name. "She's been shred and torn, but there are no incisions; her organs are not gone. This woman was being eaten. Does ¿the Ripper' eat his victims, William?"
William sighed. "As much as I'd like for there to be only one degenerate in London, I'm afraid the Inspector is right. Unless our boy Jack has fallen deeper in his own madness, this is someone else's work."
The coroner began to narrate as he pointed out the various injuries on the former woman. "As we could tell even before removing the clothes, she has quite a few bite marks, bruises, and missing bits."
"Why would she allow herself to be mangled in such a way?" Shelley pondered aloud. "This woman clearly allowed him to continue."
Confident, Bailey answered, "She was a whore, Inspector. Surely the man that did this was a customer."
"It's entirely possible she didn't even think much of the biting and such until it started getting out of hand and the assailant overpowered her," said William. "Or perhaps she was held down while the assailant or assailants-there could have been more than one-began to, ah... devour her."
As Bailey and William continued to propose theories about the incident, Shelley studied the injuries. They were like nothing he had ever seen in all his years, despite having seen some of the most depraved crimes in London.
"It seems to me," William continued, "that the bullet in her brain was what truly killed her and your men made a simple error at first."
Bailey scoffed. "That's preposterous! Dead whores are not a new concept to the world. I know a dead whore when I bloody see it. Sure they're a wee bit dry on the insides, but they're cheaper than the others."
"Then, perhaps, what we had was a miracle of life," said William. "And you killed an innocent woman who was given a second chance at life."
"Innocent? She was a whore!" exclaimed Bailey, incensed.
William threw his hands up in the air. "What kind of a society are you policing, Alan? 'Protect the innocent, serve the whores?'"
Growing weary of the fruitless conjecture, Shelley intervened. "I hardly think a person coming back to life and attempting to eat a policeman is 'miraculous,' William."
"What would you call it then, Inspector?"
"A mystery."
William shrugged, unsure of how to continue the discourse. "Well then, good luck with the manhunt."
* * *
More deaths followed in the next several days, each more gruesome than the last. Shelley was walking home after investigating the most recent slaying, a butcher pulled apart and devoured in his own establishment. As the police investigated, they had trouble telling which parts belonged to the proprietor and which his products. The Inspector kept an eye out for anything suspicious in the shroud of night, for he believed the killers (for there were obviously more than one), worked at night, where they have considerably less worry of being observed whilst under the cover of darkness.
Some theorized that the killers, including that of The Ripper's, might be part of some horrid cult that specialized in committing murders and increasing their numbers with each day to achieve some perverted unholy reverie. He shuddered to consider the possibility of all of London being converted to such a practice within time. The greatness of England would then come to an end. He also thought about that Constable Smith who was placed in an asylum shortly after the incident with the whore. His mind, he heard, gradually and rapidly deteriorated until he started attempting to attack the people around him, much like the woman.
As Shelley neared home he heard a woman's terrified screaming cries for help. After following the continuing shrieks, he located her in an alley. In front of her was a rather slovenly man who was slowly inching to her. He appeared to have some have befallen of a particularly nasty plague, and his clothing was tattered. Shelley assumed him a drunken vagrant.
"Excuse me, Miss," Shelley began with an air of authority. "What's going on here? Is this fellow bothering you?"
The miscreant slowly turned around to face Shelley, the man's visage bearing the most unflattering disposition. He looked to be in almost a trance. His complexion alone caused Shelley to revise his initial assumption. He was now an opium sot, out of money, stalking young ladies to fund his vice.
Suddenly he began to near Shelley, most likely considering him as one with slightly more wealth than his would-be victim. The plague had made his flesh rot in a way that reminded the Inspector of the meat products he saw hanging in the butcher shop.
"Now, young Miss, what's going on here? Who is this man?" he inquired.
"I dunno," the shaken young lady answered. "He just kept followin' me."
"Is that so?" he asked the man, to no avail. He simply kept approaching with the same unemotional face. As he pointed his pistol at him, Shelley advised, "Stay right where you are."
The scoundrel kept approaching despite his orders, swiping at him before even getting close enough. By continuing to step backwards, Shelley was able to lead him out to the empty street. Just then he focused his attention on the young lady.
"Miss, if it wouldn't be too much trouble," he called to her, trying to sound like a gentlemen, even in a moment of peril, "could you find a nearby constable and tell him of the goings-on?"
Shelley's request turned out to be unnecessary, for he saw the ubiquitous helmet of the constable in the distance, probably having noticed such a peculiar display in the middle of a nighttime street.
"Constable! Just the type of man I was looking for. I mean, I couldn't find any sailors, so really, you'll have to do!" exclaimed Shelley as he sidestepped to avoid the vagabond's swipes. "This fellow was harassing this young woman, and now he's out for me! Lucky for me, he's too drunk to properly throw a punch!" The Inspector's greeting was almost jovial in his derision for the miscreant.
As the constable, unresponsive, came closer, it became more noticeable he had uncoordinated mannerisms just like the vagrant and a lifeless complexion.
"Er, Constable?" said Shelley, upon noticing the lack of reply.
He took a quick glance over to the young woman. "Bloody bastard bit me arm," she announced, gripping her injury.
Shelley positioned himself so that he could see all three figures in the street. "Run home, Miss! You'll be much safer there!" The woman began to run the moment Shelley said "home."
Once he was left alone with the two men, he realized he had no idea how to deal with the situation. Did he shoot them like Bailey did the whore? Did he somehow try and get assistance? This scenario was too much for him. In his younger, brasher days, he might have jumped at the opportunity to deal with two strange men, one of which was a fellow enforcer of the law. It was a situation like that of a particularly thrilling albeit morally dubious Penny Dreadful.
Shelley aimed for the vagrant's head and pulled the trigger. The boom reverberated through the empty streets and sleeping buildings and drowned out the sound of the body slumping to the ground. He then attempted the same with the constable, but couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. It felt improper to shoot one of his own, (despite knowing full well that the only thing that separated the two men was an official position), something he wouldn't have acknowledged as a youth.
As the Inspector ran home in such a manner that reminded him of being scared as a lad, he suddenly realized that it was not some kind of ridiculous cult he was dealing with, but a disease. Surely whatever germ was passed between the infected and the victim caused the brain to become inflamed and brought out the primordial, brutish qualities that lay dormant in the human brain for eons. The British were to become as savage and unsophisticated as the natives of the lands they colonized. He thought of anything to keep himself from dwelling on the fact that he, a policeman, had just fled the scene of a crime. Unfortunately, Inspector Shelley did not notice the increasing amount of groaning in the streets.
* * *
He entered the boarding house noisily, too distressed to care if he woke up Mrs. Pearson or his fellow housemates. Shelley sighed as he entered, knowing that Mrs. Pearson had made dinner long ago and that he was to scrounge for something in the cupboards. After he finally managed to discover a small loaf of bread and began to search for a bottle of brandy, Mrs. Pearson entered the kitchen.
"Why Inspector," she greeted him, "to what do I owe this honor?"
"Mrs. Pearson, did you wait all night for me to arrive?" Shelley asked, unable to produce a grin on his face like he normally would have.
"Why of course. You boys are like the sons I would have loved to have, had my David not decided to die so early in our marriage," she said earnestly.
"I could only be your son if you conceived me at a very young age," Shelley joked so as not to distress Mrs. Pearson with his actual disposition.
"Oh, Inspector," said Mrs. Pearson, ever insistent on addressing Shelley by his title, "I do wish you'd find a nice girl, or should I say woman, at your age."
For a moment, Mrs. Pearson's motherly speech made Shelley forget about the big issue at hand and he indulged her. "I wish I could, but I fear my profession is the death of me, at least in the sense of a relationship."
It was just then that Shelley noticed something rather peculiar about Mrs. Pearson. She looked quite pale, with beads of sweat rolling down her face.
"Are you feeling feverish, Mrs. Pearson?"
She leaned on the kitchen counter for support and said, "I'm feeling ill at the moment. The oddest thing happened today, Inspector. While shopping for groceries, a rather vulgar fellow assaulted me."
Shelley's eyes widened. "What did he do to you? Did he hurt you?" he demanded.
"Somewhat. He bit my neck," she said, removing her scarf to reveal the wound. It was very unsightly, with a ghastly purple outline and a very grey and yellow complexion for a large radius around it. "Some gentleman nearby managed to push the ruffian off before he was able to continue," she added.
His stomach felt like it had been trampled by a wild horse as he led her over to a mirror in the next room. "And you haven't seen a doctor about that?" he asked.
"Oh, my," she gasped. "It didn't look like that... before." Shelley noticed her voice gradually slowing down. "It barely... broke... the skin..."
"Stay right there," he ordered. "I'll send for a doctor."
* * *
Avoiding the increasing number of "beings" in the street, Shelley returned to the boarding house with Dr. Stockington a short time later. Once they entered, he noticed an all-too-familiar odor, causing his heart to palpitate rapidly. Rushing in ahead of the doctor, Shelley's heart sank as he took in the scene before him. Sitting in a chair, looking rather lifeless, Mrs. Pearson was drenched in crimson, dripping out of her mouth and off of her face, while in front of her lay the heavily mutilated body of a man Shelley could barely identify as one of his housemates, though he could not determine which one it was.
"Oh, Mrs. Pearson. No." The words fell out as if the Inspector had dropped a basket of fruit.
She responded in mumbles and groans. It was almost as if she had lost all life and personality. Shelley thought he may have heard the word "hungry" said so loosely it could barely count as English.
As soon as Dr. Stockington entered the room she immediately lunged at him. The doctor let out a frightened howl as she tackled him to the ground, clawing at him while, Shelley, horrified quickly ran to the fireplace in the next room, grabbed a poker, and bashed her in the head with it. He heard a sickening sound as the poker sunk into her rotting brain and her blood splattered over the survivors in the room: frightened and confused doctor and the heavyhearted Shelley.
The Inspector knew that the disease will overtake Dr. Stockington as well, so he escaped the boarding house without a word to the doctor, only to find the streets crowded with the diseased. All around him they stumbled, looking just as lifeless as Mrs. Pearson and the others. As soon as Shelley let out a gasp, they all focused their attention on him and began to approach. Armed with a pistol and an iron poker, Shelley felt he was no match for these creatures, but he would not let himself succumb to them without a fight.
As each horrid being neared him, he swung the poker as hard as he could, tearing apart the creatures with each blow. It appeared that the disease weakened the structure of the body, so it could only be assumed that the flesh was then rendered brittle. Of course, the specifics of how it works were irrelevant, for survival was more important. It was as if Shelley was thrown back into an age where science and art were nonexistent because people needed to learn to survive first before answering the deeper questions in life. There was no use going to his fellow policemen or any worthy authority anymore. They had no place in this new world. Survival was his only concern.
* * *
For hours Shelley trudged through London: across streets, between buildings, under and over and around. The entire city was overrun with the diseased, ravenous for the flesh of the healthy, their plagued faces illuminated by the gaslights in the streets. He threw at them every lantern he could find, creating a wave of flames all around the impact, causing those unfortunate enough to be within the radius of the splash of gasoline to be set aflame and incapacitated long enough for him to escape. They had no regard for their individual well-being as some walked through the fire, seemingly unaware of the pain. They were only concerned with the collective primeval urge.
Once he reached the outskirts of the city, the Inspector gradually lost all hope of escaping as he found himself surrounded by the savage beings who craved the taste of him all the while in the background London was massaged out of existence by roaring flames. Out of breath, he lumbered along in a fashion not unlike the creatures that pursued him. Slowly they advanced toward him.
Shelley desperately swung his blunt iron poker, taking down any of them that got close enough and felt the savagery grow in him. Eventually his weakness and the sheer amount of the beings began to take its toll. Shelley fired the remaining bullets in his pistol, attempting to dispatch as many of them as possible with a single bullet, yet it did but serve as a minor inconvenience to the horde. As they overtook him, he had a single moment of clarity in his desperation: these beings would inherit the earth. The world would run red with blood.
Knowing that at this point, more so than before, he had no hope of being saved, Shelley uttered his words: "God save England... God save the world!" He was not heard.
