Doomware (23 page)

They talked at length about the possible origin of the virus. Tarot was adamant that everything had been planned, right down to the zombification of mankind. He reasoned that it had all happened so fast, so irreversibly fast, that it precluded anything else, and there were plenty of individuals, hidden away like dark veins in the strata of humanity, capable of fantasising about dominion over such an inhuman world. David was convinced when Tarot spoke of it, but it was more the weight of his years of experience than the logic of his argument that persuaded him.

One thing they both agreed upon was the importance of the boy. Tarot called him the Boy King, calling to mind Tutankhamun and the Valley of the Pharaohs.

“There must be a reason for his immunity,” Tarot said when they were talking about it late one night.

“But there’s nothing … I’ve racked my brains and I can’t come up with a thing.”

“No, I mean reason as in purpose, some higher purpose. Maybe his gift is meant to save others.”

“How? Everyone’s dead already. You don’t think that zombification can be reversed, do you? That they’re saveable?”

Tarot shook his head. “No, I don’t think that. Cybernetic brains are incredibly complex. They’ve got two sides to them that need to work in symbiosis. With those creatures out there, I think the biological part of their brains has died; they’re more like robots than human beings now.

“What I meant was that maybe there are people somewhere who aren’t infected yet. When the virus struck, there must have been some people who were in places safely shielded from data streams.”

“There’s virtually nowhere on the planet streams can’t reach. Nobody could’ve coped with being cut off like that.”

“There must have been somewhere, somewhere deep underground.”

“But they’d have to leave that place, and then they’d become infected, wouldn’t they?”

“If the virus was still transmitting itself, then yes. In that case, Shawn might hold the key to protecting them, to helping rebuild civilisation.”

“You really think that’s gonna happen?”

“Why not? I guess I’m just a firm believer in fate.”

“Well, I suppose with a name like yours…”

Tarot smiled knowingly. “Yes, thank you, I’ve not heard that one before.”

“I couldn’t resist.”

“I used to tell my mother she’d been dealt the Joker. She didn’t like that.”

“I’ve never understood the whole fate thing. It’s just saying that whatever happens is meant to happen, isn’t it? It’s like saying nothing.”

“When you’ve seen as much as I have… Take the way we met: what were the chances of it happening like that? Isn’t it possible I was walking that stretch of motorway at that time of night so I would hear you?”

“You said yourself why you were walking at night: it’s the best time.”

“Yes, but walking through the only night you were calling for help?”

“Coincidences happen. Things
coincide
all the time.”

Tarot shook his head.

“So who’s the decider of fate?” David asked. “God?”

“I don’t know.”

“‘Cause if it’s God I’d have to believe he let billions die like
that
,” he clicked his fingers for dramatic effect, “yet sent you to save little ole me.”

“So you could continue taking care of Shawn. It’s all interconnected.”

David harrumphed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe it.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Tarot said amiably.

“So you think we’re acy’ for a reason? A purpose?”

“Without question.”

“It’s a bit too like religion for me,” David said, and he went on to expound his philosophy of the Earth as a Petri dish watched over by a scientist deity. Tarot listened with a neutral expression on his face, nodding occasionally, not passing judgement.

When he’d finished Tarot said, “You may be right. I don’t think we’re meant to know.”

“Of course we’re not. We’re meant to have blind faith that he actually gives a shit about us.”

“Are you planning on staying here?”

The non sequitur caught David by surprise. “How do you mean? In this flat, or in London?”

“Both.”

“Why do you ask?”

Tarot sipped his wine. “It’s just that the city may not be the best place to be at the moment, especially for a young boy.”

“Well, where else would you suggest?”

“I don’t know, but there must be someplace better, somewhere like we’ve talked about: where there’s no zombies, where it’s safe.”

“The Promised Land?” David said, his voice edged with derision. Ever since Varley’s attack he’d turned firmly against that notion.

“A boy should be able to be outside, in the fresh air.”

David bristled, feeling as if his parenting skills were being called into question. But, then again, what skills did he have? He’d never raised a child.

“Shawn’s not complaining,” he said curtly.

Tarot continued in his slow, steady voice. “When I talked to him about going to the coast he told me he’d never even seen the sea. A kid should have the outside, and the sea if he can. This place is okay, but it’s vulnerable. What if there was a fire? And it’s cramped. It’s no life for him being cooped up in here.”

“It’s not my fault,” David snapped. “I didn’t ask for this piece of shit world to flush itself down the pan. I’m doing the best I can for him.”

Tarot didn’t rise to the outburst, didn’t alter his tone of voice. “I know you are, and you’re doing a terrific job. The kid’s fit and well and he adores you. I’m not criticising you. I just think you ought to think about getting out of the city.”

“I have thought about it.”

“And what’s keeping you here?”

David tipped the remainder of his wine down his throat. He felt like saying “this is my home”, but it seemed too weak. He couldn’t admit the truth: that the thought of leaving filled him with trepidation. Where would they sleep? What if they ran out of food and water? It all seemed too insurmountable. Too risky.

“I don’t know,” he said distantly. “I don’t like the idea of being on the road, not knowing where we’re going or where we’re gonna sleep. It was different for you on your own; you only had yourself to worry about. But kids get tired, kids get scared. I don’t think I could risk it, not without some form of transport.”

“Transport would make a difference?”

“Yes, it would.”

“This is London; there are bound to be usable vehicles here somewhere. If I found one you’d reconsider?”

David nodded. “Yes. As long as you promise it won’t be a motorbike and sidecar or something ridiculous.”

Tarot grinned. “No promises.”

“What is it with you and promises?”

Tarot’s smile waned. It took him a while to answer, and when he did the pain was clear in his voice. “If you really want to know, I made a promise to somebody once that I thought I could keep … but I couldn’t.”

David knew how that felt, or at least he thought he did. He’d only kept his promise to the boy thanks to Tarot. He looked away, regretting the promise he’d forced out of him when he’d believed he was about to die. He felt doubly bad because it seemed as if he should be comforting the keeper of his promise in this moment – a consoling word, a hand on a shoulder – but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even let his gaze rest on him. He felt pathetic. Tarot didn’t elaborate on the broken promise and David didn’t press him.

He went to bed that night with his feathers ruffled over the question of whether to leave London. The flat was his comfort zone, where he felt settled and safe, and he’d taken it for granted that it was the best place for protecting the boy. But was it really in the boy’s best interests, or was he just being selfish? Was the same old self-defeating notion that he was bound to lose holding him back? Staying at Trinity Court was the easiest option, the path of least resistance; hadn’t he chosen that path too many times in life? But now it wasn’t just his life on the line. He had to admit that the thought of being somewhere the boy could roam free was more than attractive, but he worried it was akin to a mirage, a non-existent dream only serving to draw the unwitting traveller deeper into the desert, deeper into danger. One wrong step and he could be responsible for the death of the Boy King, a possibility he couldn’t bear to contemplate.

But there was something else factoring into his deliberations on the subject: Tarot’s motives. Ever since Tarot had arrived David had sensed a restlessness in him. Possibly it was his soldier’s mindset urging him to seek out a location that was tactically more sound – he was obviously right about the threat of fire – or maybe he was just eager to hunt for more survivors. He was doing it as gently and as tactfully as he could, but for whatever reason Tarot seemed keen to get them all on the journey he’d been on from the start.

* * *

David didn’t feel ready to brave the outside. Physically there was nothing to stop him; he’d regained his strength, the cuts and bites had healed over, his left arm had returned to normal. His right hand remained bandaged up, but that didn’t really matter. Even the pains in his feet and lower legs had all but disappeared. There was nothing to stop him except the psychological damage of Varley’s attack. He’d lost confidence in himself, in his ability to recognise an ambush. When he thought about going outside he imagined zombies launching attacks from everywhere: from behind closed windows, from under manhole covers, and especially from inside cars. He doubted whether he’d ever be able to walk past another vehicle without checking it several times first.

Whenever the subject of going out was mentioned he prevaricated, coming up with one excuse after another, even though he knew he had to face the fear head-on or become housebound. He knew too that the delaying tactics were unfair on Tarot, who had assumed all duties involving going outside without complaint. He seemed to understand what was going on inside David’s head with a perception which bordered on the paranormal. He gave David gentle encouragement, but didn’t pressurise him, somehow knowing that such a thing could only exacerbate the situation.

April wasn’t the cruellest month, but Eliot hadn’t been far out. On a dull morning in early March, Shawn announced it was the eve of the virus’s first anniversary, information that left them feeling awed and empty. For David, these feelings soon turned into the perfect impetus for change, for facing fear, and he informed the others he was going outside. Tarot volunteered to go with him, an offer he half-heartedly declined until Tarot reminded him he had no weapons. They hadn’t been able to find his jacket and the holdall, along with the rolling pin and gun they contained, and replacing them was a priority. In reality, he didn’t think he could face the outside alone, and he was glad of an excuse to need Tarot with him.

As they were preparing to leave the boy said, “Can I come too?”

“No, you stay here,” David said. “We won’t be long.”

“Aw, but I want to come.”

“This is grown-ups’ business, okay?” Tarot said to the boy with a wink.

Shawn acquiesced immediately, and David felt a pang of jealousy. Tarot got on well with the boy, which he was grateful for, but sometimes they got on a little too well for his liking. Tarot’s interaction with Shawn was so easy, so effortless, it seemed to mock the conscious effort he had to make, making him question himself. Was he being too lenient? Too hard? Too affectionate? Too distant? He couldn’t help feeling that the mantel of fatherhood rested more readily on Tarot’s shoulders. Moreover, Tarot simply
looked
the part: the blond hair, the darker complexion, the handsome features. Anyone observing the three of them would have guessed that he was the boy’s father judging by looks alone, and the way the pair interacted would have made them confident their guess was correct. David had to fight to control this jealousy. He knew it was borne out of low self-esteem and possessiveness, and he had no right of possession over the boy. If he chose Tarot over him there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. And, after all, Tarot had raised a son of his own: it stood to reason he’d be better at handling children.

They set out. Tarot had the keys and took the lead, his gun slung over his shoulder. As they shifted the top-floor barricade he said, “So where do you feel like going?”

David stared; he hadn’t given it any thought. “I’m not sure.”

“How about showing me this Lighthouse of yours? I’d like to see it.”

“Okay.”

They were between the first and second floors when a banshee-like shriek came echoing up the staircase, followed closely by a clinking sound like glass tapping against glass. David froze, his heart constricting in his chest. He’d always checked ground level from the upstairs windows before heading downstairs, but he was out of practice and he’d neglected to do it on this occasion. The sounds had obviously come from the vicinity of the front door, but it wasn’t the fact that a zombie was nearby that bothered him; it was a terrible, sneaking suspicion. Then the shriek came again and he knew for certain. The timbre of the voice, no matter how distorted by the effects of the virus, registered deep inside him; it was unmistakable. Slowly, he sat down mid-staircase.

Tarot turned and looked up at him. “What is it?”

At length, David said, “It’s my mother.”

Afterwards, when he thought about it, David felt quite certain that anyone else – anyone who’d ever lived – would have responded by questioning how he could know such a thing without seeing it, or would have asked him if he was sure, at the very least. But not Tarot. He stepped towards him, placed a hand on his knee and said, “Let me deal with this.”

David felt numb. His mind wouldn’t focus, as if he’d slipped into a trance. Part of him wanted to stay there and listen to the shrieks, distorted and demented and meaningless as they were. It was still his mother’s voice, calling for the son who’d escaped the plague that had killed her, here where she knew he’d be. But then a dreadful, drawn-out cry, agonising in its dementedness, dragged him back to his senses. It wasn’t his mother. He knew that only too well. It hadn’t been his mother for almost a year.