Fever (Flu) (8 page)

“We were
all
exposed!” Ellis protested.

Abe sighed. “You’re right. They were never going to come for me,” he said. “Even if I killed every damn person in that lab, even if I killed all those things...” He shook his head, looked at his gun. “They knew I was desperate. Desperate enough to do something like
this
. Desperate enough to believe their lies.” He smiled. “I’m just the dopey security guard, after all...”

He looked to Ellis, aimed the gun at her.

Ellis closed her eyes, braced herself for the inevitable. Nothing happened.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that Abe had lowered the gun.

He waved a hand.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said. “None of it matters.”

A breeze blew in, ticking the hair on the back of her neck. Ellis noticed one of the shutters partially open. There was a crowbar nearby. Abe had been working to create a gap. She could get through. Escape.

“Abe, please...” she said. “Let me go.”

He looked at her, stepped forward, came right up to her face.

She reached a hand into her pocket. The envelope opener was still there. She curled her fingers around its handle.

Abe’s face was strained, riddled with guilt. “I’m sorry, Ellis,” he said. “I really am...”

“Please,” Ellis begged. “You’re scaring me...”

He touched her cheek with his hand. Smiled poignantly then raised the gun, this time forcing it into his own mouth.

Ellis backed away, shut her eyes.

The gunshot rang out, almost deafening her.

Abe’s body fall to the ground.

“Fuck!” she screamed and it was probably the first time Ellis ever used the word. “FUUUCCCKK!”

His blood was all over her. She could taste it, still warm on her lips. She wiped it from her face, spat on the floor.

Ellis needed to get out of here. She couldn’t spend another second in this godforsaken building.

She struggled through the gap in the shutters, clambering out into the open air.

The light blinded her, but she didn’t care. She ran out into the grounds, eyes closed, the sun bathing her, the wind caressing her hair, the fresh air filling her lungs... But something wasn’t right.

Ellis stopped running, opened her eyes.

She looked into the face of a man wearing the same yellow suit and breathing apparatus that Abe wore. Others in similar garb stood behind him.

Ellis backed away.

They moved closer.

One of the men grabbed her, and in the struggle, she noticed the USB stick Blake had given her fall from the pocket of her scrubs. She watched as the device was trampled into the ground.

“No!” Ellis cried.

She reached into another pocket, finding the envelope opener. Jammed it into the neck of her attacker. It pierced the plastic of his suit, found his flesh. He stumbled backwards, one hand clamped upon the wound.

A broad shouldered man stepped forward. Ellis swung the blade again but he dodged it, brought the butt of his rifle down heavily across her face.

Ellis went down hard.

The broad shouldered man moved in closer, brought the rifle down again. Then again. He pounded Ellis’ face until it was nothing but bloody mush. Grunting with each strike until he was sure there was no life remaining within her brutalised corpse.

He stepped back. Looked at his rifle, studying the blood and gore dripping from its end with disgust.

He turned to another man.

“Clean that shit up,” he said, pointing to Ellis.

The broad shouldered man moved towards the laboratory entrance, flanked by more suits.

“The virus is out, gentlemen,” he said. “So we move to Plan B.” He pointed to the building. Let’s get to work.”

Belfast, County Antrim, 20
^th
May

“Mam, I got in.”

The other end of the line was quiet. Ciaran looked at his mobile phone, in case he’d been cut off, but the screen was still bright.

“Mam? Did you hear me? I got in.”

“I heard you”, a voice said.

“Well then... what do you think? Isn’t it great?”

Ciaran was still holding the papers from the open day in his hand. One sheet was signed and dated, and he’d put it into a clear plastic envelope to keep it good. He’d waited for this day since he was a child and didn’t want anything to spoil it. He knew it wasn’t every mother’s dream to have her son enlist, especially in West Belfast, but couldn’t she at least be proud of him?

“You’ll be sent home in a box. Just like all the others.” Her words hit him like a hammer.

“Mam, I’ve joined the TA!
Territorial
Army, not the
regular
Army. They won’t send me anywhere.”

He heard her tut. He knew that noise well; his mother made it when a lump got stuck in her throat. Before the tears came.

“Mam, don’t you start—”

“You never listen to me!” she wailed, “Always think you know best.”

“Mam...”

“DON’T YOU
MAM
ME!” Within seconds, she’d gone from longsuffering and weepy to something that reminded him of a boiling kettle. Ciaran often wondered how someone so small and delicate could make this many sounds, all so different. But that was the wonder of his mam.

“Mam, listen...” he said, “I’ll not be home for dinner. I’m going to grab a pint to celebrate.”

“Who with?”

“Jamsey. Maybe John.”

“John who? You’ve never mentioned a John!”

Jesus. He was eighteen years old. When did this ever stop? “John Ford.”

“Ford? I’ve—”

Ciaran held the phone away, shaking it in the air as if to kill it. He took a deep breath, returned it to his ear. “Look, Mam. Gotta go.” He flicked the phone off before she had a chance to say anything else, pocketing it in his joggers.

He clenched both hands. She’d really pissed him off this time.

He stood near a lamppost. It was early evening and still bright, but the stupid thing was already lit up.

Ciaran slammed his fist into the rough metal. The pain was barely registering. He slammed again. A bloody mark showed up on the bleached grey hide of the lamppost. He went to swing again then stopped himself, turning his hand and looking at it. His skin was raw. It looked like mincemeat.

He turned to see if anyone else was around.

An old man pulled his dog across the road, the dog straining against its lead to glare at Ciaran. He’d scared them. He hadn’t meant to, but Ciaran had scared them nonetheless.

He took a deep breath. There was no way he could get on like that in the army. He needed to cool himself down.

A drink would help.

He looked at his watch. Only seven o’clock. He’d get a taxi into town and grab a drink somewhere.

Half an hour later and Ciaran was sitting in the Garrick bar with a pint.

The TV in the corner broadcast some football match that he feigned interest in—United against someone. There was a good crowd in to watch the football, most of the seats filled.

Ciaran sat by the door, a constant to-and-fro as people poured in and out. Neither Jamsey nor John sat with him. He didn’t expect to see them. John he’d made up, just as his mam guessed. Jamsey he hadn’t seen for a couple of years, since a major falling out over something he couldn’t remember (they had both been drinking). It was just going to be Ciaran tonight, and that was fine. He wasn’t afraid of his own company.

His hand was sore from punching the lamppost. He took another swig from his half-empty pint glass to try to numb the pain.

His mind wandered, finding the rugged desert terrain of Afghanistan. Ciaran was dressed in pale, desert khakis. He carried a rifle, probably an SA80. The rattle of gunfire was all around him. The enemy was everywhere, and his unit was hemmed in. He lay flat in the sand, looking down the scope of his weapon. There was an enemy combatant in his sights—a sniper on a mound to his left. He squeezed the trigger, and the barrel of the rifle shook briefly before—

“Not watching the football?”

Ciaran looked up, pulled from his daydream. A girl stood by his table. She was a little older than him, probably early twenties. She held a glass in one hand, sucking her drink with a straw. She was on her own.

“Not big into football,” he said.

“I thought every fella liked football.”

She smiled, and he caught a glimpse of her teeth. Thick metal braces ran across the top row like train tracks. She saw him looking and closed her mouth. Ciaran looked away, embarrassed.

There was silence for a moment, both of them drawn to the football on the screen. The ball came flying towards the United goalmouth, only to be knocked wide by the keeper’s fist. A low moan ran throughout the bar, followed by excited voices.

“I’m just waiting on a few mates,” Ciaran said over the noise.

“Oh. Alright...” she said, looking disappointed. She stood glued to the spot, one thumb hanging on the belt loop of her jeans. She looked around, as if wondering what to do with herself.

“You can sit for a bit,” Ciaran offered.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, why not.”

She sat down in the seat opposite him. In the light coming through the window, she looked a little older than he initially thought. Maybe twenty-five. She wasn’t unattractive, even with the braces. She looked over, and he knew she wanted him to buy her a drink.

“I’m... er... kinda not working right now,” he said.

She smiled. “
Kinda not working
?” she said. “What does
kinda not working
mean?”

Ciaran looked down finding a beer mat on the table. He picked it up and twirled it around his fingers. “Been signing on. Got a new job today but don’t start for a couple of weeks.”

“Well, congratulations then. I’ll get
you
a drink to celebrate.” She pointed at his pint of Harp. “Another one of them?”

“Er, yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

He watched her walk to the bar, looking her up and down. There were a couple of fellas standing nearby, pints in hand. One of them looked over and nodded at Ciaran as if to say,
Nice one, mate
. Ciaran looked away.

The phone in his pocket vibrated, causing him to jump. He retrieved it, looked at the screen. MAM CALLING. He swore then selected IGNORE CALL. He switched the phone off and slid it back into the pocket of his joggers.

The girl was back now. She sat another pint beside his half-empty glass and slid into her seat. A glass of what looked to be Coke was in her hand.

“That vodka?” he said.

She sniffed the glass. “No. Just Coke.”

“Don’t you drink?”

She looked up at the television as if the answer to his question might be there. Rooney was arguing with the referee. The bar erupted again, the group of fellas nearby pointing at the screen and shouting.

“I used to,” she said, still watching the TV.

Ciaran nodded. New conversation needed. “What do you do?”

She turned back. “I’m a teacher,” she said.

“Yeah? What do you teach?”

“Just everything. Primary school.”

“What age?”

“P 7. Ten and eleven year olds.”

Ciaran smiled. “They’re wee shits at that age.”

She laughed, took a sip of her drink, then asked, “What’s your new job?”

Ciaran looked at the clear plastic envelop sitting on the table beside him. “Just joined the TA,” he said.

His voice was muted. Apologetic.

“Wow,” she said but she didn’t look wowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s just a job.”

He lifted his pint and drank deeply. He went to set it back on the table, but she stopped his hand.

“Let’s drink to your new job,” she said, then put her lips around the straw. He watched the Coke move up towards her mouth. He lifted his own glass again, lightly knocking it against hers as she continued to drink. He drained his own glass dry.

Voices swelled suddenly around them. Someone had scored.

“What’s your name?” Ciaran said, leaning closer to the girl.

“Julie,” she shouted over the noise of the crowd. And then she smiled again.

Waringstown, County Down, 1st June

The boot sale was less crowded than usual.

Martin’s stall was gaining little attention; people weren’t interested in the contents of his garage, the old records and books, the toolbox he’d never used. He’d dusted them all down, even polished a few things to give them a shine, but still no takers.

He reached a hand by his side finding his dog, Fred. He stroked the dog’s fur as it slept peacefully. Fred was his right-hand man. The old dog lay beside Martin’s deck chair, soaking up the heat, giving moral support.

Martin looked at the other stall-holders, the ones with trinkets and curiosity items. He wondered why folks bought such junk. Then again, these things were more social than anything else. All about the chit-chat.

He wasn’t a boot sale regular; twice a year would usually clear him out.

People here wanted a bargain, something for nothing. Martin had learned to barter over the years, not allowing folks to grab his stuff for buttons. One time, when Martin was greener to it all, some old pro bought half the stuff on his table, only to add it to his own stall, selling at twice the price. These tools he brought today were brand new, hardly out of their packaging. Martin wasn’t going to let them go for pennies. He’d rather give them to charity.

He spotted an Indian family. They were usually good for a sale, descending like hawks, mid-morning, filling plastic bags with clothes and toys for their children, anything they couldn’t get cheaper elsewhere. Martin recognised them. He’d seen them haggling in the local shops, broken English sounding aggressive to whatever old dear was manning the till.

“How much for the tape?”

Martin looked around, finding an old man waving a roll of half-used masking tape. He wore a white string vest, formidable belly hanging over belted trousers, bare arms sun-scorched and covered with white hair.

“A pound,” Martin told him.

The old man sniffed, turned his face up and set the roll back on the table. “Fifty pence,” he said without looking at Martin.

“Pound,” Martin said, reaching his hand over to ruffle the head of Fred.