Wild Strawberry: Book 3 Ascent (21 page)

             
Max punched the air! “You got the frequency!  This
is
good news!”

             
The others turned to Max in disgust.  They were still contemplating Danniella and Tina’s death.

             
“What?  Don’t you guys want to find a cure?  This is amazing!  Let’s cuff him up and let him in.”

*   *   *

“So why did you come back here?” Asked Jim looking puzzled.

             
“Firstly, I promised Danniella that I’d pass this jacket on to a young lady called ‘Summer.’”  The Scientist attempted a smile as he fished out the red leather jacket from his bag, but, as usual, the expression did not suit his deathly-pale face.

             
“Secondly, Danniella told me there was broadcasting equipment.  We have the signal to turn off the nanites.  I just need the means to broadcast it.  I’m sure there are more powerful transmitters, but I think there’s a chance I’ll be able to work out how to use this one, and once we’ve cleared the area around here we can start to look for better equipment.”

             
“Assuming you don’t kill us all.”

             
“I’ll be honest with you, if my earphones stop working all bets are off, and even with them my mind’s slowly closing down.”

             
“So what good is the signal?”

             
“We found the frequency the nanites will listen to.  My headphones are broadcasting to make them work more or less properly.  Danniella and I found the signal, if broadcast on the same frequency, will switch the nanites off.”

             
The Scientist could still see confusion on Jim’s face, so he continued, “The dead will stay dead, not end up like whatever-it-is-that-I-am.”

*   *   *

The broadcasting equipment had not been used for decades, and it didn’t function when it was first powered up.

             
The next few days Rob and the Scientist worked on fixing the transmitter.  Rob had made a radio from a kit as a teenager, and the Scientist had a general knowledge of how these things worked, so between them they made pretty good progress.

             
Max had little or no mechanical knowledge, so he continued to examine the notebooks and attempted to confirm the research.  He was torn between excitement that a cure had been discovered, and frustration that he had not been the one to make the discovery.  “I’m thrilled this worked – I suggested Danniella work along those lines,” he would say to anyone who would listen.

             
However, the zombie who had once been Will was his most constant companion.

             
“Well, mister Will, your time is up,” Max addressed his test subject with mock earnestness, “I’d like to say that I’ll miss you.  I’d like to, but it wouldn’t be true.”

             
Max waved his hand in front of Will’s face, laughing as the zombie snapped and strained to bite him.

             
“I’m not for eating, you bad boy.”  As he spoke he slapped Will across the face.  He had done this many times to take out some frustration when his research had not been going to plan, or when the other survivors had failed to see how important his research was compared to their insignificant efforts.

             
The slap was casual, yet this time he was careless, and Will twisted his head into the blow and managed to nip the side of Max’s thumb with his teeth.

             
“Oh you dirty bastard!”  He spun round his lab clutching his thumb, then wheeled round and punched the zombie full force in the stomach.  It brought a fresh wave of pain to his thumb, but he was satisfied to hear one of the Will’s ribs crack.

             
“You stupid fucker, you bit me!” He picked up a folder from his desk, smearing it with blood from his thumb, and brought it down as hard as he could on the side of Will’s head.

             
Calming down, he looked at the wound.  It was small, but he knew that even the tiniest scratch, if infected with the nanites, could be fatal.

             
He sucked at the wound as hard as he could, tasting his blood salty and metallic.  He sucked and spat the blood into the sink before sucking again. After he had repeated the process several times he washed his mouth out with water.

             
Then he poured some bleach into a cup and dipped the wounded thumb into it.

             
“Fuck it!   Fuck!  Shit! Shite!  Shitey shit fuck!”

             
The pain was searing and it felt as though his finger were shriveling and rotting in one horrible instant.

             
“Hold it!  Hold it! “ He shouted at himself as he gripped the wrist of his injured hand with the healthy one, stopping himself from pulling it out.

             
“The pain is a signal to my brain!  The pain is a signal to my brain!” He told himself over and over, trying to ignore the signal currently screaming at him to take his thumb out of the glass of bleach, which was turning pink as his blood seeped into the thick liquid.

             
The door to his lab opened and Max jumped, sending glass and bleach into the sink.  The glass smashed, and Max pushed on the tap to wash away the smell of bleach.

             
“Hey Max,” it was Summer, “are you OK?”

             
“Fine!”  Snapped Max unconvincingly.

             
Summer walked into the lab, “Oh have you cut yourself on the glass?”

             
“What?  No, it’s nothing!”  Max looked puzzled, then realised how the scene looked: broken glass in the sink, his bleeding thumb, running the wound under the tap.

             
“I mean, yes, I cut myself on the broken glass.  You made me jump.”

             
Summer glanced at Will for an instant. “It must be hard working with someone we all knew before he died.”

             
“Yeah, I just can’t get used to it,” Max nodded, “he’s so much more than just a specimen, he’s
Will
.”

             
“That looks nasty,” Summer nodded towards the sink, where Max was still clutching his wrist.

             
“It’s OK, I studied medicine, I know what to do.”

             
Summer glanced at Will again, “You gotta be careful, there’s all sorts knocking about this lab, you don’t want to get an infection.”

             
“I am quite aware of the precautions that are needed in a laboratory, young lady,” said Max through clenched teeth, “the only person who doesn’t know lab protocol is you.”

             
“OK, OK, keep your hair on,” countered Summer, backing out again, “I was just here to tell you that lunch is almost ready.”

             
Once the girl was gone he rinsed his thumb under the tap, and continued his litany of curses.

             
He just hoped that he had caught the infection in time, and that if not the strange Scientist would be able work his cure in time. “Nothing to worry about Max,” he told himself.

*   *   *

“Is there any way we can test the signal on my pet zombie?” Max asked the scientist.

             
No we need the transmitter; I spent a day in a fully-equipped lab to turn these headphones into transmitters.  They wouldn’t normally transmit to the right frequency – usually they just produce audio-waves.”

             
“OK, OK, I was just wondering.” Max ran his hand through his hair; he was surprised to find it so greasy, “so how long till the transmitter is up and running?”

             
“It should have worked right away.  But the equipment is years old: all past it’s best and perishing.  I understand they had maintained the Bunker on a regular basis, but I don’t think they had been checking the radio station.  They probably thought the equipment was too out of date to bother with, and to be honest it’s all analogue, not really up to much.”

             
Max shook his head sadly, “So any idea what’s wrong with it?”

             
“I really don’t.  I think all the input is working; it’s just something in the wires from here to the antenna, or the antenna itself.”

Last Supper

“We have thirty-two bottles of wine,” Elsbeth announced to the survivors at the next evening meeting.

             
There was a cheer.

             
Elsbeth held her hands up for silence, “we have a tough decision to make.”

             
“Drink, drink, drink!” Rob started up the chant, which was picked up by Jim and Siobhan.

             
“So we drink it till it’s gone – we’re not going to ration it?”

             
“No rationing!” Cried Rob. “Fuck it, we could all be dead tomorrow, and all that wine going undrunk would be a sin.”

             
“Part of me thinks this is not the time to piss off Allah,” said Misha, looking at the offered glass of wine, “but then I think, what the heck, there is more serious crap going on at the moment.  And-” Misha shrugged her shoulders, “Allah is merciful, and He will understand that the end of the world has Affected my better judgement.”

             
The others cheered, glad that Misha would be joining in their reveries.

             
Summer had been allowed more than a glass of wine for the first time.  She had in the distant past bought a bottle of wine with some friends and passed it around, getting a little drunk and feeling very grown-up and sophisticated.

             
Now she felt properly grown-up, she didn’t have to hide this from her father; he was filling up her glass with a sad smile.

             
She felt lightheaded and warm very quickly, and ran off to get Will’s guitar: this night needed music.

             
“This one,” she began, slurring slightly, and suddenly anxious that she may be too drunk to play properly.  But she took a deep breath, strummed the intro and started to sing:

             
“
As I was a goin’ over the far famed Kerry mountains

             
I met with captain Farrell and his money he was counting

             
I first produced my pistol and I then produced my rapier

             
Saying “Stand and deliver” for he were a bold deceiver,
”

             
Summer rocked back on her chair, fumbling with the chords.  She covered her mistakes by shouting to the other survivors, “This is the chorus, listen to this: you gotta sing it from now on,”

             
“
Mush-a ring dum-a do dum-a da

             
Whack for my daddy-o. Whack for my daddy-o

             
There’s whiskey in the jar!
”

             
She paused for a beat trying to remember the next verse, but gave up and shouted out, “It’s the chorus everybody!”

             
This time they all joined in,

             
“
Mush-a ring dum-a do dum-a da...
”

             
Summer sang on, fishing the words Will had taught her out of the depths of her memory.  The song was both joyful and poignant.  As she reached the end, she whooped: the wine, the music, and the spirit of the moment filled her with life, “Last chorus, everybody!  Sing it for Will!”

             
“...
Whack for my daddy-o

             
There’s whiskey in the jar.
”

             
Rob laughed, “That takes me waaay back!”

             
His laughter was infectious, and soon the whole group was laughing.

             
“This,” declared Rob, “is the best night of my life!  And if I was to be stuck in a Bunker with any six people in the whole world, I could not choose better people to spend the End of Days with.”

             
Jim laughed, “You’re pissed!”

             
Rob said “That’s very possible, but whether I am or not…”

             
Jim interrupted, “I know, I know,
you’re my besssht friend!
”

             
Rob laughed again, “How did you know I was going to say that?”