Fever (Flu) (11 page)

“In your hands is an SA80 assault rifle,” he continued. “Standard weapon of the British Army. Let me remind you that this is your gun. She belongs to no one else, so I want you to look after her.”

The Sarge stopped in front of a young lad with blonde highlights and earrings. Ciaran didn’t recognise him. He wore a white boiler suit like Polish Ron’s. His eyes were watering. A gun rested awkwardly in his hands, like it might explode any minute. The Sarge looked at the lad with disdain, shook his head then progressed on down the line.

“I ain’t gonna give you any bullshit about this rifle being your best friend, your lover or any other war movie bullshit,” he continued. “But you need to become familiar with her. You will need to strip, clean and reassemble her and do it quickly.

“Most of you already know some of the basics. You’ve taken her for a walk, marching around this godforsaken camp like a pack of queers. Some of you have even been firing live ammo on the range. But today, ladies, is a very special day. Today, you’ll get the chance to actually use your mother-fucking gun.” The Sarge’s eyes widened, a smile breaking across his lips. “Does that excite you?”

A low murmur along the line.

“I can’t hear you!” roared the Sarge. “Are you ladies excited?!”

“Yes, sir!” the recruits returned.

“Good!” The Sarge barked back.

He reached the end of the line, turned and proceeded to walk back down it.

“Now, on the muzzle of your SA80 you’ll notice an attachment. This is to stop you idiots from killing each other. You’ll be firing blanks for this exercise, not live ammo.” His voice lowered as he added, “Thank God.” Another low murmur throughout the line, this time amusement. “You’ll be dealing with all kinds of shit when you’re out on those streets,” the Sarge boomed, “and I don’t want any of you jokers panicking, shooting the place up. A good soldier shows restraint. There’ll be no friendly fire on my watch. You got me?”

Another parrot-style reply from the line.

“A built up environment is the hardest to work in. You’ll have limited vision. An attack can come from anywhere. This exercise will have plenty of surprises: targets that you will not fire upon as well as targets that you will fire upon.”

The Sarge stopped, smiled and looked up the line. “Now, who wants to go first?”

He was met with deathly silence.

The Sarge sized up to Ciaran. “What about you, soldier?” he said, gazing into the young recruit’s eyes. “Are you ready to walk the walk?”

Ciaran thought about the Sarge’s question for a moment.

His mind travelled back to the TV in the canteen. The riot at the hospital. The infected man being dragged out of the office block. He thought of the kitchen hand standing with his mop, sweat soaking his back as he watched it all play out in on the screen.

Ciaran remembered how excited he was on open day, how proud he’d been when telling that girl, Julie, he’d met in the pub, about enlisting. But now he wished he’d listened to his mam. Because the Sarge wasn’t exactly selling the job of soldier to him.

It was hot. Ciaran tugged at the collar of his khaki shirt.

There were flies everywhere, and he swatted one across the nearby wall of the first makeshift house.

He swore under his breath, wishing he were somewhere, anywhere else but here.

The FIBUA, as the Sarge called it, was poorly organised, half-arsed and, frankly, pointless. It reeked of box-ticking. The Sarge had made a list, marking each recruit off on his clipboard as they performed each manoeuvre. Room clearing was the next thing on the list.

And Ciaran was up.

They were to move in groups of three, keeping their eyes on the streets (read: space between each wooden shack) before storming the plywood houses one at a time, clearing each, room by room. Throughout the houses, the Sarge had pinned paper targets, some representing hostiles, others meant to be civilians. The recruits were to clear each allocated room, showing quick response to hostile targets, while leaving the civilians unharmed.

Ciaran was in a group with Ron and Grady.

He was tired and jaded and couldn’t be arsed with any of it. His clearance of the first house was slow and pretty sloppy. He missed several key cut-outs.

The Sarge told him he’d be a dead man, were this the real thing. That levelled Ciaran more than he thought it would. The deeper he got into this stuff, the more he realised he wasn’t the badass soldier he thought he was. It was really getting him down.

Grady, on the other hand, was buzzing. He’d proven to be a good aim on the range and in this exercise looked just as sharp. Too much so, mind, the zealous little cunt emptying his mag into two cardboard children in the second house. The Sarge barked at him for that, but Grady didn’t seem to take anything to heart the way Ciaran did. As long as his trigger finger was clicking, the little twat seemed happy.

It was Ron’s turn to take the lead next.

Although visibly nervous, the Polish man surprised Ciaran, taking care as he cleared each room efficiently, his nerves seeming to sharpen his senses as opposed to dull them. Even the Sarge seemed impressed, his silence throughout Ron’s run saying it all as he shadowed the recruit through the wooden set. Looked like the Pole had some military experience after all.

They came to the last house, Ron still taking the lead.

Ciaran and Grady held back with the Sarge as Ron took the biggest room at the end of the corridor. Ciaran watched the Polish man glide through the doorway, his rifle aloft and ready for action. Even with the white boiler suit, Ron looked more like a soldier than Ciaran ever would, and that pissed him off.

He was jealous. The jealousy turned to resentment, Ciaran wondering just why the Polish man was even allowed in the TA in the first place. Surely only
British
citizens should be allowed to join the
British
Army! But Ciaran was reminded of his own passport. How it was
Irish
, not British.

His mam’s face crossed his mind. Her disapproving look.

Army’s no place for a Falls Road boy
.

There was a sudden scream. It sounded like Ron. Ciaran ran to the bigger room, looked in.

“Ron?” he said. “You okay, mate?”

It was dark, the sunlight dimming, affording Ciaran little light despite the plywood building’s open top.

In the corner, he noticed Ron struggling with someone—or something.

Ciaran raised his rifle even though it was loaded with blanks.

Ron stumbled towards him, the Polish man clutching his own throat, blood soaking the brilliant white fabric of his boiler suit.

Ciaran froze, dropped his gun. “What the—” he mouthed.

Ron reached for him, one arm outstretched, panic in his eyes.

Ciaran backed away, looking for help. Grady was in the corridor, the Sarge beside him.

Another man staggered into view. It was the man Ron had been struggling with. He looked young: tall and thin, wearing a chef’s uniform. Ciaran realised it was the kitchen hand from the canteen yesterday, the one standing by his mop as the news played on TV.

Only, something was very wrong with him.

He looked a mess. His face was blue, his whole body bent over itself as he crept forward. One of his feet dragged like it was broken.

Ciaran backed down the corridor, the kitchen hand following.

“J-Jesus, Sarge...” Ciaran said, looking to his CO, “What the fuck’s wrong with him!?”

The kitchen hand’s mouth opened, a viscous cough erupting. As he stepped into the better light, Ciaran could see blood gathering on his chin. He realised with horror that it wasn’t the lad’s own blood but Ron’s.

“Stand aside, Private,” the Sarge said.

Ciaran pulled back, watching as the Sarge raised his handgun, aiming it point-blank at the lad’s head.

He fired.

The shot rang out louder than Ciaran expected. The noise was everywhere, echoing around the plywood walls of the house.

It was the first time he’d watched a man die. Sure, he’d watched stuff online—suicides and beheadings, anything he could find, genuine or otherwise. Ciaran thought it would prepare him for the real thing. He thought he’d be ready to see this.

But he wasn’t.

And he certainly wasn’t ready for what came next. Ron was on the floor, choking on his own blood, his lips forming a gargled plea.

“Sh-shouldn’t we call for help, sir?” Ciaran offered, but the Sarge ignored him, instead standing over the wounded European man and unloading two rounds into his head.

“Fuck!” Ciaran gasped, jumping with each shot. “Jesus Christ!”

His voice broke, giving way to sobbing. Tears flowed down his face, and he rubbed them away with his hand. He looked to Grady, finding the other lad’s face dry like stone, eyes glued to the two bodies on the ground, chest rising and falling in short bursts as if excited.

Nobody wanted to talk about the FIBUA. It wasn’t that it hadn’t affected them—most of the other recruits looked as shocked and scared as Ciaran—it just seemed best not to talk about it. Not directly, anyway.

Lunchtime, and pretty much everyone had started drinking already. The officers seemed to turn a blind eye to it, perhaps realising the recruits needed an outlet after the day’s horrifying events.

But Ciaran was sober.

He left the others as they filed into the canteen.

He pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. Slid it open, accessed his contacts list and chose MAM.

The phone rang twice before a familiar voice answered.

“Hallo?”

Ciaran went to say something but his voice was shaking.

“Ciaran? Is that you son? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Mam,” he said, sniffing back the tears. “Just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Ciaran,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get you for ages, son, but you never answer. Listen, we’re leaving the city. Your Uncle John’s got a caravan in Newcastle. We’re going to stay with him for a bit, wait this whole
flu
thing out.” She said the word ‘flu’ the same way she said words like ‘Brit’ or ‘Police’ or ‘Paisley’. “You know where he is, don’t you, son? Bunny’s Caravan Site. You’ll come join us as soon as you get out of there, hear?”

“Sure, Mam,” he said. “Soon as I can.”

“How’s training going?” she said, and he could still hear the disapproval in her voice. “You know they’re going into houses now, locking people up? Your Granny’s friend was locked up the other day. Don’t you be locking people up, son, you hear me?”

“I hear you, Mam.”

“Don’t know what you’re doing there anyway,” she sighed. “Come on home now, and sure you can go up to Newcastle with me and your Uncle John. He’s plenty of room. It’s a big caravan he has.”

“I’ll try and get away, Mam.” But he knew he wouldn’t. They weren’t letting anyone leave, unless the doctor signed them off. And Ciaran wasn’t keen on admitting anything that even
smelled
like illness after what had happened to Ron.

“Well, that’s where we’re heading,” his mam said. “Get a taxi, sure. They’re still running where you are, isn’t that right?”

“I’ll do that,” Ciaran lied.

He could hear some raised voices at the other end of the line.

“Listen, son, that’s your Uncle John now. I’ve got to go. But you take care of yourself.”

“I will, Mam.”

“And Ciaran,” she said. “You know I love you, son.”

“I know, Mam,” he said, face twisted as he fought to hold back the tears. “Me too.”

He ended the call, bent over and threw up on the ground.

A couple of recruits passed him on their way out of the canteen.

“Fuck’s sake,” he heard one say. “He’s infected! Like the ones on the news!”

“I’M NOT FUCKING INFECTED!” Ciaran yelled at them, grabbing one of the lads and pushing him up against the wall.

“Alright, alright,” the recruit said. “Calm down, mate.”

Ciaran released the man, pushed him away and then stormed off in the other direction.

“Fucking psycho,” he heard the lad shout as he retreated. “You’ll never make a soldier getting on like that!”

Belfast, County Antrim, 16
^th
June

The television sat in the corner of the room, ornaments built around its base. It was jet black, the smooth finish glistening as the brightness of day leaked through closed blinds, bleeding into the screen.

Shaun stood by the living room doorway, his arms crossed. He was reading the words along the bottom of the picture, following the ongoing debate between a rather zealous TV host and his bureaucrat victim of the day.

A hand patted Shaun’s arm. Lize was baying for his attention.

“Are you just going to stand there, watching that?” she said, her lips strained. She was holding a dishcloth, evidence that she
wouldn’t
be standing there with him.

Shaun waved her away, looking back to the screen.

The debate was heating up. It was about the flu, of course. What the government were doing about it.

A middle-aged man from the studio audience was shouting, hands pointed aggressively as he hammered his point home. Once done, he sat back into his seat, arms folded.

Everyone clapped for him.

A news update appeared at the top of the screen: STORMONT DENIES POLICE BRUTALITY.

The blue lights of an ambulance flashed past the front window, pulling Shaun away from the TV.

He looked for Lize, finding her bent over the sink in the kitchen. He called her, but she didn’t answer. He called louder, not sure what background noise he was battling against. Still she didn’t look around, dipping her head towards the sink. Her hands busied with the dishes, yet produced nothing.

Shaun closed in from behind, wrapping her in his arms. He could feel her body shaking, little reverberations moving through her. He turned her face gently to his. She was crying. She pressed her soggy hands against his chest and leaned in on him.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

Her mascara was running. She checked her eyes. “This whole thing...” she said, “Shaun, it’s getting worse, not better.”

It was more difficult to read her lips when she was like this. They turned up at each corner just like when she was smiling, telling him a joke or playfully flirting. Shaun wanted to sign to her, but she was standing too close to him.