Fever (Flu) (16 page)

“We’re fucked. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

“Colin, I’m just being—”

“You’re being the same, miserable bitch you’ve always been!”

They were interrupted by the sound of commotion building further down the line of traffic.

A blast of gunfire. Both Colin and Vicky jumped in unison.

They stared at each other.

“What was t-that?” she said.

“What do you
think
it was?”

Colin looked into the back seat. Sinead was shaking, curled up in a ball, arms wrapped around her petite body. Her face was red, her lips stretched across her teeth. She was in pain.

“We can’t stay here,” he said.

But Vicky wasn’t listening. Her hands were clasped over her ears. Her eyes were closed tight, her lips working as she muttered, “Oh God oh God oh God...” Colin swore, straining to look up the line of traffic.

He breathed in, then out again.  He undid the handbrake, reached for the gearstick and revved the engine.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Vicky said.

“Just hang on,” he said.

“What is it? What’s going on?”

Shaun waved his hand across her face as if that action alone might magically silence Lize.

“Shaun, what is it?!” Lize said more slowly, as if to flaunt both her ability and absolute right to speak.

But Shaun kept his eyes dead ahead.

Lize spotted a number of armed soldiers. They were moving along the line of traffic.

Lize clicked her seatbelt open then reached for the car’s door handle.

“What are you doing?” Shaun asked.

“I’m going to ask them what the hold-up is.”

Shaun sighed heavily. She knew he felt powerless in situations like this.

“Mummy?” she heard from the back seat.

Lize looked into the rear of their people carrier. Jamie peered back at her, his face a deathly shade of white. He was scared, and Lize shouting at his dad wasn’t going to help matters.

“I’m just going to ask the soldiers what’s going on, darling,” she said in the voice that adults reserved for patronising children.

There was a sigh from the back. It sounded just like his dad’s sigh: all grown-up, less of a huff and more of a moan. It seemed to put years on the boy.

“Listen,” Shaun said. His voice was measured, less fraught. “Let
me
go.”

After ten years of marriage, she knew him only too well; he wouldn’t want the other men in their cars, with their wives and girlfriends beside them, to see him sending his woman out to talk to the scary men with guns.

“Okay,” she said.

But it wasn’t to save his pride. It was her fear talking. The nerves performing summersaults in her belly, the bouncing heart
he
could probably feel from the seat beside her, telling her to step back and let the invalid handle things.

It was always his joke to her whenever she was control-freaking him, making him feel as if he were paralysed from the neck down as opposed to being deaf:
Let the disabled guy do it
, Shaun would say, and Lize would laugh.

But Lize wasn’t laughing now.

She leaned back into her seat.

She watched him open the door, heard Shaun make the same sighing noise his son had made only seconds ago.

It was then that Lize had a moment. More of a panic, really.

Maybe it was the sighing, the way her son would breathe out in a similar way to his father, but there was a certain poignancy about this scene. Lize sensed very strongly that something was going to change from now: their dynamic, their life together as they knew it shifting down a gear. It was an all-consuming fear, and she felt the urge to cry. Instead, she swallowed hard and reached to touch her husband’s arm.

Shaun leaned his head back inside the car. “What?”

“Be careful,” she said, clearly annotating each syllable.

His eyes fixed upon her as he read her lips, drawing the sincerity from her words like water from a well.

He nodded.

***

Lize watched through the windscreen as Shaun moved up the line of traffic.

From the car in front, she could hear coughing, a dull echo hammering out like a drum, deep and throat-ripping. From somewhere else came sneezing.

Lize looked into the back seat.

“Put your mask on,” she told Jamie. “Now!”

Once the boy pulled the surgical mask down over his mouth and nose, Lize reached for her handbag, retrieving her own. She didn’t place much faith in them. They’d been distributed by the government when the initial panic had reached ‘Fever Level’ (as the experts were now calling it), along with a plastic water bottle, described as VIRUS PROOF, and an overly cumbersome fold-out leaflet with the words KEEP CALM written across the front in gaudy colours.

“What’s keeping him so long?” Lize muttered to herself.

She craned her neck to see past the cars in front. Shaun was drawing near to the soldiers at the front of the line.

One of them stepped away from the main pack, his rifle half-mast to signal Shaun to stop where he was.

Lize watched Shaun raise his hands into the air, like a foiled bandit from some old Western. She could see him speaking, his lips moving as he no doubt tried to form his words in a way that would be easily understood. He was nervous, and he didn’t always make sense when he was nervous.

“Mummy, what’s happening?” came Jamie’s voice from the back, slightly muffled under his surgical mask. “Shhh!” she chastised.

She looked back through the windscreen.

Lize noticed the soldier turn his head, midway through whatever useless, indecipherable tirade Shaun was dealing out.

She was beginning to wish she’d gone instead of him. She wasn’t too old to flirt. Open a few buttons on her top, flash a bit of tit. God knows, it had worked on Alan.

No, don’t go there.

Something was happening.

The soldier talking with Shaun returned to the main pack, his rifle still drawn. The others surrounded another car, about four or five up from their own. They all aimed their guns forwards and Lize heard an exchange of raised voices.

“Oh shit,” she muttered. “This doesn’t look good.” Lize undid her seatbelt before winding the window down and leaning out. The gunfire made her jump. Shaun was looking back at her and couldn’t see it. “Shaun!” She waved her hands at him, calling him back.

“Mummy?”

She ducked her head back into the car.

“Keep your head down!” she said firmly to Jamie. “Just like they tell you on the plane. Duck it between your legs.”

When she turned back, she found Shaun running back to the car.

He pulled the door open, jumping in.

“What’s—” she began, but he broke in.

“They’re shooting people,” he said, imitating the action with his hands. Then he fiddled with the keys to get the ignition started.

“
What?
” Lize said, but he had turned away.

Shaun fired the car up.

“Wait,” Lize said. “Even if you do get out of the line, how are you going to get past them?”

Shaun banged his hand on the steering wheel, swearing.

Lize glimpsed into the back finding Jamie, head still tucked obediently between his legs, just like she’d told him.

The sound of commotion made her look outside again, the occupants of several other cars in the queue simply leaving their cars and making a run for it.

An old woman, clearly infected by the virus, stumbled around by the side of the road.

A short burst of gunfire split through the old woman’s head, splashing bits of her brain, hair and blood against their car.

Almost as a reflex, Shaun switched the wipers on, spreading the concoction like spilled soup across the entire windscreen. He flicked another switch, jetting some fluid into the mix, turning the mixture pink, the wipers continuing their work to create larger patches of clear glass.

It was through one of these patches that Lize watched the soldiers continue their cull, firing into another car, the windows shattering against the hail of bullets.

A vintage Volkswagen Beetle turned onto the hard shoulder, revving like a cat ready to pounce, aimed squarely at the ready-made roadblock ahead. As Lize watched, it fired on ahead, skidding against the loose gravel.

A volley of shots rang out, the car still firing ahead towards the blockade.

Lize looked over at Shaun.

His hand was on the gearstick.

It was his first day on the streets. Ciaran had been in active duty for all of two hours, and he’d already killed.

He stood back from the car, the SA80 warm in his hands.

There was a girl inside.

She was infected, and he’d been told to fire at her.

With the windows blown apart, Ciaran could see her more clearly. Blood spread across her body, but he still recognised her. It was the girl from the Garrick. Julie. The primary school teacher.

She’d bought him a drink, made him feel good about getting the new job (this job!) when even his own mother couldn’t be proud.

And in return, Ciaran had ripped her apart with the squeeze of his finger.

“Oh fuck,” he said.

Ciaran stepped back, dropped his rifle to the ground.

There was a man clambering out of the front of the car, an older man, clearly in shock. Blood flowed from his forehead, most likely from flying glass, a bitter aftershock following the hail of gunfire.

Ciaran looked to Grady, standing beside him. The other lad’s rifle was still aimed at the car, awaiting the order to disengage.

“What have we done?” Ciaran said to him.

The Sarge squared up to Ciaran, standing mere inches from his face. “You did what had to be done, Private! Now pick up that rifle!”

“No, I...”

“PICK UP THE FUCKING RIFLE!”

Screaming from a nearby camper van.

“Sir, more infected!” shouted Grady.

A man exited the van and leapt upon the young soldier, trying to wrangle his gun from him. A younger woman descended from the back of the camper van, helping an older woman wrapped in blankets to climb out after her.

The Sarge moved in to help Grady wrestle the gun free from his attacker. He pulled the man away from Grady, kicking him to the ground. Once Grady was clear, the Sarge aimed and fired two rounds into the bettered man’s chest.

“If they’re hostile or infected, put them down!” shouted the Sarge to the other soldiers. As if to demonstrate, he aimed at the retreating women and fired another volley of shots, felling them both.

The younger woman was still alive, lying on the ground, screaming and trying to clamber away. As Ciaran watched on, horrified, Grady fired two shots into her back.

Chaos erupted, people leaving their cars in droves now.

The Sarge stepped forward, eyes wide, and took aim at those fleeing. “INFECTED!” he bellowed, before firing indiscriminately.

Ciaran closed his eyes, prayed silently for the hell that he was witnessing to be over.

He could hear the sounds of cars revving up, some trying to drive their way out of the death trap.

His eyes snapped open.

Someone was on the ground next to him, trying to pick up his rifle, but Ciaran grabbed it, fought to wrestle it back.

His attacker lashed out, punching him repeatedly in the head.

Ciaran let go of the rifle, stumbling backwards onto the hard shoulder.

Impact.

Noise everywhere.

Ciaran found himself halfway through the windscreen of a car. He couldn’t see too well but made out the face of a young woman, hands raised as fragments of the windscreen showered her.

And then he lost consciousness.

The crash of glass gave way to Vicky’s scream, both arms crossing her face as the car hit something or someone.

Colin shielded his eyes and sank his foot on the accelerator, hoping a dead straight line would take them down the hard shoulder and past the carnage.

When he opened them again, he found a man’s head jammed in the devastated windscreen.

Vicky was pulling her seat back, her feet kicking against the dashboard, trying to scuttle further away from the horrible sight.

Blood gathered in the cracks of the glass. Colin couldn’t tell if it belonged to him, Vicky or the man embedded into the windscreen.

Everything was happening too fast.

He stole a quick glance in the rear view mirror. They’d cleared the carnage, but Colin didn’t dare slow down.

He could see Sinead, still lying in the back, barely conscious yet safely strapped in by both rear seatbelts.

“Get him off me get him off me get him off me!” screeched Vicky, still scuttling against the bloodied head and shoulders on her side of the dashboard. Colin could see the rest of the man’s body hanging across the bonnet.

He looked down the M1, finding an open road, few cars in sight.

He pressed his foot on the pedal, squeezing every last drop of Dutch courage out of Vincent’s fuel tank. The little car whined like a wounded animal. It wasn’t a sound Colin remembered hearing from Vince before. Then again, he didn’t think Vincent would ever have reached these kinds of speeds.

The soldier remained stuck in the windscreen. His head rested on the dashboard, occasionally bouncing as they progressed further down the motorway.

Within time, Vicky calmed, her seat still pulled as far back as she could manage, but no longer trying to burrow her way through it. She was shaking, both hands pulled up to her face.

“Is he...?”

“Dead?” Colin looked over to the man’s head. Blood seeped into the soldier’s hair, creating a mess of red and black that looked like slick oil. Colin felt his guts churn. “Don’t look at him.”

“I can’t help but look at him,” Vicky barked. “He’s right in front of me!”

“Well, just close your eyes, then!”

“You close your eyes!”

Colin stared at her quizzically. He could tell from her face that she knew her last quip didn’t make any sense. For some reason, a smile spread over his face.

Vicky looked at him incredulously.

He started to laugh, not knowing how he could, or why he needed to.

“Oh, I’m sooo going to hell for this,” he managed.