Breeding Ground (28 page)

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bed. But I still cared for her. She was young and lovely and when in the right mood, could make me laugh with just a flash of her eyes and a sharp remark. Unfortunately, those moods were few and far between. “Wow,” she said again, this time staring straight at the screen.

“It’s only a bloody dog.” Nigel was leaning against the back wall, feigning disinterest. I think he was disgruntled because even Daniel and Mike had been livened up by its arrival, and so for the last fifteen minutes he’d avoided the sweaty throng around the monitors, putting himself in voluntary isolation at the back, making sure we could all sense his displeasure.

“Au contraire, Nigel.” George lit his pipe. “It is not just a bloody dog. Firstly, it’s very much alive, and I doubt I’m the only one that has noticed the distinct lack of livestock roaming around.”

“Remember the fucking cats at the farm?”

Jane didn’t blink at John’s expletive, but bounced excitedly on Rebecca’s lap. “They were all dead. All the animals were dead. All the ones we saw, anyway!”

“That’s right, Jane.” George winked at her. “So, firstly it’s alive. Secondly, it’s sitting outside this fence, as if it somehow knows we’re inside, although how the hell a dog could tell a thing like that I don’t understand. Thirdly, and most importantly, I think we’ll all agree,” he puffed steadily for a second or two, “it’s surrounded by widows, who are keeping what seems to be a safe distance from it, with no apparent intentions to attack. And the dog doesn’t even care that they’re there.” He paused. “So, let’s leave the it’s only a bloody dog’ remarks for another time, and perhaps another dog.”

Nigel may have abandoned the full suit look, but he

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still wore stiff shirts and trousers with his polished slip-on shoes; as he pursed his lips he looked almost effeminate, the thin sheen of sweat that appeared on his receding hairline an obvious sign that George had got to him.

“Well, if you’ve got all the answers, then what do you suggest we do? Open the door to save a bloody dog and get ourselves killed?” He snorted with disgust.

George stared at him calmly for a few seconds before turning his attention back to the small screen. Although he was three people back, his height meant he could see the patient animal sitting on its haunches in the TV screen quite clearly.

“I’ll tell you what I think we should do.” He didn’t look at us, but kept his eyes on the calmly still border collie and the platoon of widows that moved around it. “I think we should watch and wait. If it’s still sitting there in a couple of hours without those things touching it, then I think it’s worth the risk to get it in.”

“And what if they attack it between now and then?” Maine waved his cigarette dangerously close to Rebecca’s hair. He’d told us in Woburn that he used to have a dog, and it was obvious watching him now that he had a real soft spot for man’s best friend.

“Well,” George raised an eyebrow on his worn face, “if they attack and kill it, then at the end of the day, it’s only a bloody dog. It’s a new world we’re living in, Oliver. You know that. We’ve got to be tough.” He smiled kindly. “But somehow I get the strange feeling that this dog’s going to be just fine.” He turned away. “In the meantime, I think I’ll do my duty taking a stroll around the perimeter. My joints could use it. You fancy joining me, Oliver? It’ll make the time pass quicker.”

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Maine was hesitant, but George’s almost parental tone was too persuasive. “Sure.” Picking up his fags, he grinned. “Probably about time I did my bit to help the aged.”

I noticed he still threw a quick glance over his shoulder before he left, though. That dog and its fate were going to be on his mind the whole way round.

As it was, the dog stayed on everyone’s mind during those two hours. We decided to carry on as normal with our routines, but I figure each one of us peered into the comms room for at least one check during that time. John was on watch and his bladder must have been bursting, because no one had ever had so many cups of tea brought to them. And every person that popped in came out with the same silly grin and two words.

“Still there.”

Having finished cooking up a shepherd’s pie for dinner, I was mopping the floor when Jane and Rebecca came in. Her eyes shining, Jane grinned and planted her hands on her young hips.

“Time’s up! Are we going to keep the dog? Are we? Do you think it’s still out there? Do you?”

Rebecca smiled at me and I grinned back, neither of us needing sign language to share our warmth at the little girl’s enthusiasm. Despite the problems with Katie and Jane’s insistence that she smelled funny, it was great to see how Jane was coping. She’d buoyed up a bit after we’d heard the rumour about the camp of children up north, and although that sounded a touch too far-fetched to be true to me, her eyes had started to sparkle a little more with the hope that one day she might meet someone her own age. And children

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always cope better with change than adults do. They adapt much quicker than grown-ups, their imaginations allowing them to, their young minds not yet settled into the routines of a comfortable world. And Jane was living proof of that.

She humphed at me, expecting an answer. “Well, do you?”

I leaned the mop against the wall and trod carefully across the wet tiles to join them. “Yes, I do think he’s still out there. If he wasn’t, I’m sure John would have said something.”

“Then come on!” She dragged me by one hand and Rebecca by the other across the grass and we stumbled giggling and laughing into the hut. Katie had crossed from the dorm and watched us from the top of the steps, her green eyes hard.

“How cosy.” She whispered the words icily as I walked past, low enough so that Jane didn’t hear. For the first time, I ignored her. She had no right to be bitter. Maybe it did hurt seeing Jane so wrapped up in other people, but it wasn’t as if she were taking much interest in her little sister. From what I could make out, she hadn’t even asked Jane to share a room with her. All Katie seemed interested in was sleeping and spending time by herself. And she sure as hell couldn’t be jealous of Rebecca and I laughing together. She may have still been more my friend than she was anyone else’s, but that really wasn’t saying much these days. No, I figured she just didn’t like to see us all happy for a moment without it having anything to do with her. And that was just bitchy.

Leaving her behind, I followed Rebecca and squeezed in close to where John was sitting by the controls. He was smiling and shaking his head slightly.

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“The little bastard’s just sat there the whole time. He hasn’t moved. Amazing.”

“What about the widows?” Whitehead was further back, having just joined the rest of us, and couldn’t see the screen.

“They’re still out there, but they’ve backed off. Look. They’ve pulled back about thirty yards. A couple have gone over the hedgerows on the other side of the road. They’re still there, but not exactly looking like they’re thinking of attacking. It’s like they’ve gone back to normal sentry duty.”

Sentry duty was what we had come to call the behaviour of the widows that we saw. It seemed that as we watched them, there was always a presence of ten to fifteen of them that watched us, as if reminding us that they knew we were here and were just keeping an eye on us while they wreaked havoc on the rest of the world. They weren’t always the same widows, we were sure of that. As we did our share of duties, so the widows appeared and went in shifts.

“So, are we going to go and get it?” Maine looked like a man about to explode.

As usual, we all found ourselves turning to George for an answer.

“Yes. It would seem that we are.”

Jane shrieked with excitement, rushing over to Maine and hugging him, completely overwhelming the older man before letting him breathe enough to hug her back.

Daniel took over at the desk ready to open the gates just a fraction, while John, Chris, George and I walked down to get the dog in. Dave had taken Jane to go and find some appropriate food for it, with strict

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instructions that my just-made shepherd’s pie did not fit into that category. Nigel had stayed silent during the discussions and Jeff and Dean’s loyalty to him became clearer when they disappeared with him to the dorm, obviously wanting no part in the excitement. Dean seemed more hesitant, but still went with them. To be honest, it was better without them. I wouldn’t have wanted Nigel alongside me, and especially not armed.

We had upgraded our weaponry and had one proper flamethrower recovered from Hanstone’s gardening lock-up, a shotgun and one of the semiautomatics left behind by the army, which I’d been elected to carry. John had the flamethrower, and grinned beside me. “Whatever you do, Matt, don’t shoot the dog.”

“Very funny. A little more respect for your elders, young man.”

“Oh, no worries there. I’ve got plenty of respect. You’re the one carrying the fucking machine gun.”

“So I am.” Not that I needed reminding of it as we trudged down the last few yards of the drive. My hands were sweating even though I was keeping my finger well away from the trigger. All I could see happening if I touched it was blowing my own toes away and then shooting everyone around me. The gun should have made me feel safer, but I felt like a walking hazard. Yes, we may have been mentally toughening up, but all those years as a mortgage advisor hadn’t really given me the skills I needed for handling powerful weaponry. And over the previous few weeks while we’d been safe in Hanstone, the struggles we went through getting here had faded slightly.

We came to a halt at the gate, but my stomach continued to churn.

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“Are we all ready?” George had the shotgun, still carrying it calmly over one shoulder. It was a last resort weapon, really. If the flamethrower and semi didn’t do the job, then it was unlikely the shotgun was going to be that much help.

We nodded. It was Chris’s job to pull the dog in and he got himself placed closest to where the gates would open and crouched down. John and I took our places standing above him and slightly on either side. George was a few feet back, the gun now pointing forward and straight.

“Matt,” John removed the nozzle cap from his weapon.

“Yes?” Inexpertly releasing the safety, I let one finger rest very lightly on the trigger. My heart pounded in my ears with relief that nothing happened.

“Let’s say the widows don’t attack when the door opens. Shall we still let them fucking have it anyway? They’re close enough to hit, and once the dog’s in we’ve still got a few seconds firing time while the gates shut.”

I mulled it over, while George raised his hand to the camera. Our signal to Daniel that we were ready. Why the hell not? And we sure as fuck needed the shooting practice.

“Sounds good to me.”

Beneath us, Chris groaned. “Oh, that’s great. Just great.”

Buzzing into life, the thick metal squealed as it started to drag its doors apart for the first time in almost a month.

“Here we go.” George called from behind us, and it took all my strength to stop from panicking and squeezing the trigger. I could only imagine all those

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widows clawing over each other to get to us. Which was ridiculous, I knew. If they were too close then Daniel wouldn’t have opened the gates. Although on the other hand, it took the gates a few seconds to get themselves moving, during which time several widows could have come a whole lot closer. Great. Fucking great.

By the time I’d finished winding myself up into a full-scale terror, the metal was screeching and a small gap of daylight had appeared. Below me, I saw a black nose pushing and snuffling in, as if the dog could sense our urgency to get it inside. One inch became three and then four and then six and within twenty seconds the dog was wriggling its thin torso through the opening, tail wagging in its thick black fur, tongue licking Chris’s face furiously, the weight of its body pushing the thin scientist tumbling backwards to the ground.

But twenty seconds was a long time, and when I looked up I could see that it wasn’t going to be target practice after all. Four widows were closing in on us fast, and further back more were emerging from the hedgerows.

“Oh shit.”

Without hesitation, John surged the flamethrower into life, sending a huge burst of flame out through the gap, his stance solid, no sign left of the hesitant teenager who had fought with me against the widow in the farmhouse. Through the shimmering heat and roar of the jet of fire, I could see that the widows were still coming. God, these fuckers were hard to kill. Shutting my eyes, I braced myself and pulled hard on the trigger, the gun thrusting back into my shoulder as it burst into aggressive life.

“Shut the fucking gate!” The noise of the gun blazed

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in my ears, but now that my eyes were open I could see that we were at least keeping them back. One was up on its hind legs, still somehow coming forward, barely four feet away. The gate was closing, but too slowly for my liking.

“To the left!”

John pulled his flame round and I finally managed to aim my gunfire in a specific direction-straight at the bitch. The results were pretty satisfying, and as it jolted backwards, the power of the rapid-fire bullets and the flame too much for it to take, I heard it squeal in anger and pain. The grey of the gate finally closing off my vision, I gritted my teeth, suddenly surging with anger, and preferring it to fear I set it free, concentrating my aim on the eyes of another widow creeping in from the right.

It kept on coming and I kept on firing, sure I was damaging it, some of that bank of red bursting and oozing pus-like gel as the bullets hit home, but I seemed to have enraged the widow as much as it had enraged me, and shrieking, the strange sound still coming unnaturally from somewhere inside and outside the mandibles and suckers on its revolting body, it launched lithely at the gate just as the two sheets of metal clanged shut.