Fever (Flu) (31 page)

This news was as shocking as it was big.

Reading through the papers, Colin couldn’t help but wonder if heartbreak alone had led Chris to take his own life. Would the contents of these documents have been enough to push him over the edge, either way, to leave him with nothing but an empty feeling inside?

“Found it,” Colin typed to Tom.

God help us all.

His heart was thumping in his chest. He waited with baited breath for Tom to come back to him. He wanted rid of this stuff. For it to be someone else’s problem.

A sudden noise.

Colin swung round in his chair, listened more intently. It seemed to be coming from the hallway.

He glanced back at the screen, noticed Tom was writing back.

He sighed, walked to the door and opened it, looking out into the hallway.

There Colin found Ciaran, the young soldier using a baseball bat like an oar, guiding his wheeled office chair down towards the bathroom.

“What was that?” Colin asked.

“Don’t know,” the other survivor replied. “I think it came from there,” he added, using the baseball bat to point towards the bathroom.

“Is Vicky still in there?”

Ciaran shrugged. “Looks like it.”

Geez
, Colin thought.
She’s been in that bath for hours now. What the hell’s she doing?

Another noise, this one more frantic than before. Both men looked down the hall once more.

The light from the bathroom spilled out into the hallway as what appeared to be Vicky, naked and wet, crept slowly towards them. As she moved closer, Colin could see that her wrists were sliced, diluted blood seeping from the wounds.

“Oh Christ...”

Colin’s stomach seemed to shrink.

He moved to Vicky, grabbed hold of her. Tried to hold her arms above her head. He thought he’d seen it done on some patient on a hospital show.

But Vicky wasn’t just
any
patient...

Her face leaned in close to Colin’s neck and he felt her teeth sink through his skin. As Colin struggled to let go of her body, Vicky continued to feast on him, roughly chewing on the flesh, ripping it away in mouthfuls.

***

Ciaran backed off, using his bat to roll himself away from the other two survivors, now struggling on the hallway floor. He watched as Colin pushed Vicky away then tried to stand up, one hand vainly placed against his torn neck, blood gushing between his fingers.

Colin looked towards Ciaran, eyes full of longing. “H-help me,” he mouthed.

“I-I can’t, man. You’re bitten!”

Ciaran’s one good arm continued to work the bat, rolling his chair back towards the kitchen.

He watched as Colin’s eyes rolled back in his head and he lost his balance, crumbling against the wall next to him. A red stain followed his trail as he slid against the white plaster, falling to the floor.

Vicky stood watching, her stone-blue face displaying neither regret nor satisfaction for what she had just done. Her eyes turned to look at Ciaran. She began to follow him down the hall, her movements almost as awkward and strained as his.

Ciaran pushed open the kitchen door, sliding himself onto the tiled floor and then trying to close the door with the baseball bat.

But Vicky’s hand reached through the crack in the door, struggling to get through.

The young soldier wheeled himself away, knowing he had neither the strength nor agility to navigate the door against her efforts. He watched from the far side of the room, his back against the kitchen sink, as she pushed the door further open, clambering through to face him.

Outside, the sound of the dead rose, its gruff, congested choir perhaps a welcome to their new sister. Vicky stopped, seeming to stare out the glass-fronted patio doors, no doubt seeing the pack poised and waiting in the garden. Then she looked back at Ciaran, her head twisted to one side.

There was nowhere for him to go.

Ciaran looked at the baseball bat, deciding it was useless. He dropped the damn thing, his twisted hand reaching instead for a nearby drawer. He opened the drawer, his hand searching amongst the various utensils, finding a blade. He retrieved the blade, brandishing it in front of him, as if that action alone might scare Vicky off.

Still she moved towards him, her hands grabbing for his hair.

Ciaran dodged her.

He stood to get up from his makeshift wheelchair, swinging the knife in his one good hand. But the blade dabbed uselessly without any gusto and soon left his hand, gliding briefly in the air before hitting the floor, sliding across its smoothly polished tiles.

Ciaran tumbled after it.

Vicky bent down, reaching for him.

Her face drew close. Her skin strangely fragrant, the distinct aroma of bath crème still fresh on her.

Ciaran struggled to get away but it was useless.

A sudden noise drew his one good eye. Ciaran looked to find Colin stumbling into the kitchen, his face pale, his neck and t-shirt drenched in blood.

Great,
the young soldier thought.
Now there’s two of them to feast on me.

But the other man bent to the kitchen floor, retrieved the knife. He made for Vicky, brandishing the knife with both hands and swinging for her. The knife bit deep into Vicky’s neck, her head jolting up in what appeared to be surprise or shock. Colin dug deeper, the knife eating further into her neck until Ciaran could see bone.

Vicky fell backwards, her body jittering on the floor as if she were having a fit.

Colin fell against the cooker, spent.

He looked to Ciaran, his mouth fighting to speak. “The... the computer,” he said. And then his head dipped to one side, and his breathing slowed to a standstill, his body sliding to the floor beside Vicky.

It took Ciaran a long time to pull himself back onto the swivel chair. He tried numerous times; each unsuccessful attempt leaving him sprawled across the floor. Finally, he made it, positioning himself once again in the driver’s seat of his makeshift wheelchair.

He sat for a minute, catching his breath.

On the floor, the two corpses lay apart, Vicky’s body still shaking, her bright eyes turned away from Colin.

The computer
, he remembered. Those were Colin’s final words.

The young soldier pushed himself away from the cooker towards the kitchen door. He used the door as leverage, entering the hallway. He moved back along the hallway, into the study, where the computer was still running.

He noticed the screen with several messages listed. Some answered, others unanswered. This was a chat room. He would have used them all the time back in school. Colin must have been using it before the shit hit the fan.

But who the hell was he talking to? Ciaran started by asking that question.

***

Waringstown, County Down

Tom slammed his bottle to the desk.

“What do you mean, who am I?! We’ve been talking for ages!”

He typed it.

The reply came quickly:

NOT COLIN. COLIN’ S FRIEND, CIARAN. “What’s going on? Some kind of fucking party?!”

Tom’s hands were shaking. He was so close.
So fucking
close.

He typed:

WHERE’S COLIN?

The reply came almost immediately:

DEAD.

“Shit!” Tom said. “They’ve been breached.”

He started to panic. “What to do, what to do, what to do,” he muttered.

He waited for the familiar mantra to be repeated, but the bird was dead. He knew that.

“No time,” Tom said. “No fucking time!”

He returned to the keyboard. Looked like this Ciaran bloke was his only hope.

He started to type.

A sound in the corner disturbed him.

Gingerly, Tom turned back towards the birdcage.

The bird was moving. Fluttering around the cage, falling, then picking itself up and flying again. Bloody thing looked doped. Its beak opened to speak, but instead of words it released a shrill squawk.

Tom had never heard it make that sound before.

“Christ almighty,” he muttered to himself. Now the infection had breached
his
house.

He turned back to the computer.

The Chamber, County Armagh

“Go fuck yourself, Gallagher.”

The doctor smiled.

“Now, now, Major,” he tutted. “You’re an officer. Where’s your manners.”

Gallagher reached for the nearby packet of surgical wipes, retrieving one to remove the gob of blood and mucus from his yellow plastic suit. He dumped the wipe into the nearby bin.

“Now, let’s try that question again. I want to know how you’re feeling right now. As the virus takes control of your body, how does it affect you?”

“And I told you to go fuck yourself,” Jackson said.

“Indeed you did, sir. Of course repetition is a key behaviour of the dead. This is promising. You’ll make a fine specimen.”

“I’m going to rip your heart out.”

“That’s the spirit!” Gallagher rejoiced. “Come on, Major! Let’s have more of that anger. I’m convinced it will speed up your transformation.”

Jackson laughed bitterly. “Why me?” he said. “Why not one of those other monkeys out there, drinking themselves to death.”

“Because I’m not a monster,” Gallagher said. “I’m not going to murder an innocent man.”

Jackson laughed again, this time harder. The laughing gave way to wheezing, more blood spilling from his lips.

“We both know
exactly
what you are, Gallagher,” he spat. “You’re the coldest bastard I’ve ever known. How a man can inflict as much misery as you have and still consider himself human, I’ll never know.”

The doctor shrugged. “I’m sure our old friend Patrick Flynn could say the very same about you, sir. And yet here you are, pious to the end.”

He smiled, strolled across to the Colonel’s torso. There was even less of the old man left now, Gallagher having removed the dead man’s lower jaw. He’d then pulled each tooth in the top row, piling them like shillings in the Colonel’s old hat, the same hat they’d drawn from during that farce of a lottery.

“Why can’t you be like the Colonel?” Gallagher said to Jackson, all the while stroking the dead man’s hair. “Such a gracious host.”

Gallagher retrieved some lighter fluid from the table, sprinkling it like vinegar over the Colonel’s head, humming as he worked.

Once done, he turned to Jackson again. “You see, Major, the actual virus is quite a complex beast,” he said. “Can take one man within a matter of hours. Another over the course of several weeks. And once dead, there are differing reports of how long the infection takes to
subvert
a host, shall we say.

“Yet on subversion, the risen dead will act quite a
primitively
. A slave to instinct. Mostly presents a pack mentality, using whatever senses the virus feels moved to leave them.” Gallagher fumbled in his pocket and produced a lighter. “Watch this,” he said, winking at Jackson.

He sparked the lighter, bringing the flame close to the Colonel’s eyes. The old man seemed excited by it, his eyes widening immediately, following the flame as Gallagher waved it from side to side. Gallagher then lit the old man’s wiry hair, the Colonel screaming as if in delight as both hair and flesh went up.

“Primitive,” Gallagher said again, noting the Colonel’s excitement as he burned, “drawn to light and fire. Worshipping it, I would suggest, even though it might very well destroy them.”

Gallagher lifted a nearby mug of coffee and tipped it over the dead officer’s head, putting the flame out.

He turned again to Jackson. “You’ve all this ahead of you, Major. Aren’t you just the tiniest bit curious as to how it will
feel
?”

“You’re sick!” Jackson protested.

But Gallagher smiled. “On the contrary, sir,” he said. “I feel fit as a fiddle. All this excitement, you see. Warms a man’s heart, no?”

There was a sudden beeping noise.

Jackson followed the noise, noticing what looked to be a Blackberry on the table, next to the Colonel. Gallagher moved towards the Blackberry, picking it up. He worked at the phone’s buttons, smiling as he read whatever message had just come through. It struck Jackson as odd that any network would be live at this stage of the game.

“What’s your thoughts on conspiracy theories, Major?” Gallagher asked. “Seems our man Willis is a fan...”

There was a knock on the door.

Gallagher looked to the Major quizzically, as if the infected officer might know who was there.

“Please excuse me,” he said, sliding the phone into the pocket of his lab coat.

He went to the door, opened it.

One of the soldiers stood at the other side.

“Can I help you, Private?” Gallagher asked, smiling. “Er, there’s a call for you, sir?”

“A call, you say.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“A call from
whom
, Private?”

“Dunno, sir. They asked for you.”

The Private strained to look past Gallagher towards Jackson and the Colonel.

The Colonel shrieked, causing the Private to jump. Gallagher left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

“Okay, take me to this call,” Gallagher said to the Private.

The younger man led Gallagher back through to the control room, where several other soldiers sat poised around the radio they’d been working at. A faint hiss escaped the contraption, one of the men holding its mic.

He looked up as Gallagher approached.

“Sir, we’ve been broadcasting a distress call. This ... er... gentleman responded. He claims to be from the government.”

Gallagher smiled. “How exciting,” he said.

He pressed the mic, said, “This is Dr Miles Gallagher at your service, acting CO of The Chamber. To whom am I speaking?”

Waringstown, County Armagh

The country held a certain anarchic quality that Lark could appreciate, a grassroots sense of order that appealed to someone who had felt frustrated and confined by rules all of his life. Nature did as it pleased all the time.

“This is it,” Willis said.

The car pulled up to another farmhouse. It looked very much like the one they’d left less than an hour ago. It had a small front garden, clumsily fenced, a garden path running to a heavily locked door. Weeds rose up from the cracks in the paved garden path like snakes.