Fever (Flu) (26 page)

No. Still not fair.

Shaun weighed everything up in terms of effort. People who tried hard should survive.

He’d made the effort with his own life. Achieved despite his deafness. Learned to speak, read; all in a language that made no sense to him, a language that was intangible, relayed without sound.

He had made the effort with Jamie too. Taken him out of a falling city, retreated to the countryside. Shaun had even put aside his difficulties with Martin to ensure the boy’s safety.

Surely that was enough!

He looked to Lize.

His wife wore a strained look. It reminded Shaun of her face when going through labour, giving birth to Jamie. He remembered holding her hand, the silent screams he saw her make, the sweat like mist across her skin.

The shape of his little boy’s mouth as he made his first cry...

“This isn’t right!” Shaun protested.

He grabbed the handle of the door leading to the garage, twisting it.

“Don’t be a fool!” Martin yelled, rising up from his seat. He went to stop Shaun, tried to prise the younger man’s hands from the door handle as he reasoned with him, “Think about your wife, for God’s sake!”

Shaun was only able to catch bits of what Martin was saying, reading his lips while both men struggled with the door. But he caught enough to become enraged. He wouldn’t let that bastard lecture him on looking after his wife.

How dare he?

Something snapped within Shaun.

His head crashed upon Martin’s nose, the break of bone tangible, the jerk of the older man’s body as he fell back onto the kitchen floor. Shaun then leapt upon Martin, punching and spitting and digging into him.

White heat seared across his eyes.

He felt another hand grab his shoulder, trying to pull him away from his prey, but Shaun lashed out at it too, his right fist unknowingly striking Lize across her cheek, sending her across the room.

Lize tripped on one of the bodies, fell back against the edge of the kitchen table then tumbled to the floor. Her own body shook briefly—like she was having some sort of fit—and then was still. Blood pooled quickly from the back of her head.

Shaun froze.

Fred was first over, until that point cowering in the corner, barking as the two men struggled with each other. He sniffed Lize’s face, licking it once, twice before a short whimper escaped his mouth and he wandered away, head down and tail between his legs.

Martin was next across the floor. He scurried almost animal-like, grabbed Lize into his arms. Rocked her to and fro, all the while keening.

Things seemed to slow down for Shaun.

Everything else was forgotten: the dead outside, the virus, Jamie.

Shaun wouldn’t remember Fred wandering over to him, sliding his head into his hands, seeking comfort and reassurance. Neither would he remember stroking the dog absently, tears running down his face and falling into the dog’s fur.

He’d only remember Lize, her body still and beautiful. Yet lost to him.

***

At some stage, Shaun opened the garage door and took Jamie out, just like he’d been trying to do before. Only this time Martin didn’t try to stop him. Both men knew there would be no use in that. They knew there was no use in
anything
now.

They sat on the floor at opposite sides of the room. Shaun with his infected son, cradled in his arms, sleeping. Martin with his ever-loyal dog nestled in against his shoulder. The kitchen floor divided them like No Man’s Land, the bodies of the dead still lying where they’d been felled.

Lize’s body lay amongst them.

Shaun’s hand ran through Jamie’s damp, warm hair. The boy’s breathing was slow and laboured, in contrast to the panting of the parched dog by Martin’s side.

The sun was valiantly fighting its way through a small gap in the wooden board covering the kitchen window. Several cadavers were prising their fingers through the gap, searching for weakness, still itching to get in.

“It isn’t the deaf thing,” Martin said. “You can’t help that.”

Shaun’s eyes homed in on Martin’s lips.

“It’s Lize. I couldn’t let go of her,” Martin confided. “I couldn’t hand her over, not after all that happened...”

The older man reached into his pocket, took something out, threw it over to Shaun.

It fell by Shaun’s side. He picked it up.

It was a picture. Taken a long time ago. The colour was almost gone, like it had been sitting in the sun for some years. In the picture, Shaun could see Martin, a lot younger than he was now. The girl beside him looked exactly like Lize. Only Shaun knew it to be her mother.

Shaun threw the picture back. It landed on Martin’s lap. The older man picked it up, stared at it quietly for a moment, and then smiled.

“It’s impossible to let go of someone you love,” he said. “Even when they’re gone. You know that now.”

Shaun looked down at the face of his son. He wiped the boy’s forehead with an already sweat-soaked cloth.

“But when your daughter grows up to look and behave
exactly
like the woman you loved, the woman you lost...” Martin looked Shaun in the eye. “Sometimes it felt like you were sleeping with my wife, not my daughter.”

For a moment, the two men sat in silence.

Then Martin stood up, the dog still close to him. He went to Lize, bent down to retrieve her body in his arms. “The boy needs you,” he said to Shaun. “Just like my daughter needs me.”

Shaun nodded.

Martin left the room, Lize in his arms, the dog following.

Shaun returned his attention to Jamie. The boy’s skin felt warm but not burning like before. He wasn’t breathing anymore. Shaun held the boy up to his face, burying his head in the soft, damp flesh.

Silently, he cried.

The Chamber, County Armagh 7th August

Willis stood in the observation room, staring in through the one-way glass at Gallagher’s makeshift research lab. The doctor stood in the middle of the room, wearing his bloodstained plastic coveralls. Near him was the Colonel, or what was left of him; the rest of the older man was wrapped in clear, sealed bags and arranged on the nearby table. He was dead but, like the dead outside, still moving, his eyes staring at the doctor.

Major Jackson was strapped into a nearby chair, naked.

Gallagher proceeded to inject Jackson with something resembling blood.

Willis watched for another moment, swallowed hard, then pressed the red button on his side of the screen. “Sir, you asked for me?” he said.

Gallagher finished administering the injection before speaking.

“Ah, Willis,” he said. “Thanks for joining us. You’ve been working on repairs to the helicopter, I hear. I hope that trouble you had from the last job didn’t cause any long term damage?”

Willis recalled his recent approach of the apartment block in Finaghy, seeking out the young survivor located by The Chamber’s surveillance cameras. Of how a man, now identified as ex-IRA operative Pat Flynn, had appeared from one of the apartment’s windows and fired upon the helicopter, forcing Willis to take evasive action.

“Nothing serious, sir.”

“Good,” Gallagher said. “We’ve been monitoring the situation via the surveillance cameras. Flynn’s no longer in the picture. The block was heavily invaded by the dead, and we feared we had lost not only Flynn, but also the Fico girl. Alas, two unidentified civilian survivors seem to now have her in their care. They’re on the roof of the apartment block. I want you to go back there now.”

Willis felt his heart skip. He’d watched with the others as they witnessed the miracle of the young Eastern European child, Brina Fico. She’d developed the virus, was quarantined, yet seemed to have somehow survived it. Although not a medically minded man by any stretch of the imagination, Willis knew what that meant: she was the key to survival. Humanity’s last hope lay within the blood of that innocent little girl.

He wondered how he felt about that.

“I need the child,” Gallagher continued. “The others are not important, but feel free to bring them if the girl won’t come alone.”

“And if they refuse?” Willis asked.

Gallagher looked again to Jackson. “I believe you weren’t around to witness the full extent of what happened in the control room earlier,” he said. “There was a disagreement between Major Jackson and I. The Major is a troubled man, Willis. Haunted by ghosts of the past, ghosts like our old friend Pat Flynn. But that life is gone now. We’re in a new era, and nothing should hold us back from doing what must be done to ensure our survival.” Gallagher replaced the spent needle on the table beside Jackson. “If the two civilians put up any resistance, you must kill them.”

Willis was careful not to let the nervousness show in his voice as he addressed Gallagher: “Sir, permission to fly on my own, unaided by co-pilot Davis.”

“And why would you request such a thing?” Gallagher asked.

“Fuel, sir. We’re dangerously low. Even one man’s weight can make the difference. Especially if I’m to return with all three survivors.”

Gallagher mulled it over for a moment then nodded.

“Of course, Mr Willis,” he said. “I trust you to know what’s best. If you wish to fly alone, then that’s fine with me.” He smiled. “While in command, I would like to give you gentlemen as much autonomy as possible.” He lifted a scalpel, turned his attentions to the Colonel. “Don’t make me regret that,” he added.

“Of course, sir,” Willis said.

His eyes surveyed the lab once more before he left the observation room.

The doctor returned to his work at the table. Jackson’s eyes snapped open, the shamed officer immediately trying to pull free from his restraints. “Ah,” Gallagher smiled. “Just on cue.”

***

He’d been infected.

But Major Connor Jackson was fighting back.

He tried to use his training. Mind over matter.

His body was jerking, his face grimacing as he resisted a virus that’s sole aim was to consume him. To wipe his mind clean and replace the social conditioning that years as an army officer had ingrained in him.

Jackson fought against the virus because the life of a little girl, an innocent little girl who had already suffered enough, depended upon his fight. His eyes were closed, and his dissolving brain fought to hold the face of that little girl and the word
INNOCENT
in his mind, hoping that even when dead, even when reanimated as a monster, like the mutilated Colonel beside him, he might retain some sort of control.

God help him, he didn’t want to do what the bad doctor
needed
him to do.

“For the greater good,” Gallagher had said to him when challenged on his plans for the Fico girl. But what good could come from unleashing a monster on a child?

Jackson thought back to the gruesome day when his life had changed forever.

His daughter had been kidnapped by the IRA. Pat Flynn, well known IRA operative, was in his custody at The Chamber. As was Pat’s son, Sean. When Flynn hadn’t talked, Jackson was pushed to the edge, acting outside of his own character, doing something monstrous, something heinous, murdering the Flynn boy in cold blood.

INNOCENCE
, Jackson said to himself now as he struggled against the virus. He said it again.

And again.

Willis passed the other soldiers in the control room.

Some of the men were working on the radio, surfing the airwaves. Arguing and fighting over connections and channels, every last one of them drunk as skunks.

Idiots
, thought Willis as he passed.

The pilot retreated to the complex’s toilets, checking first that the stalls were all empty.

He locked himself in one, retrieving the compact Blackberry from his pocket.

He connected to The Chamber’s own server. It was weird to think that an old relic like The Chamber might have its own server farm. It had been installed years ago, communication deemed vital to The Chamber’s work and, even though the connection wasn’t great, the signal fading in and out, it had meant Willis could maintain contact with old Tom. He reckoned no one else in the complex had the know-how or motivation to spring him. Those fools out there were arguing over a damn radio, for God’s sake. This was as secure a connection as Willis was going to find, yet he kept his comms brief all the same.

He logged into the makeshift user group. He’d set it up some time ago with Chrysler, another one of his contacts, in case of emergencies like this. For a moment, Willis wondered again what had become of Chrysler. He sure could use the other man’s expertise right now.

The pilot’s own user name came up: AGENT 13.

There was only one other user in the group: Uncle Tom.

Tom was a good friend. Trustworthy. Impulsive, but sharp.

Willis typed.

“Come on, Tom,” he said. “Answer me, damn it.”

***

Waringstown, County Down

“Tom, Tom, Tom,” the bird shouted.

The old man’s eyes popped open.

“What?” he said. “What’s happening?”

He looked to the birdcage.

The parrot was chattering obsessively, acting very strange. It picked at its own wings, fluttering about in the cage like it was drunk.

“Damn bird,” Tom growled. “I should just snap your fucking neck right now!”

He went to the window, looked out.

A group of dead filled the yard. He could hear them hacking up phlegm, gobs hanging from their lips like stringy glue.

“Fucking things!” Tom shouted out the window. He shook his fist.

Some of the dead looked up. A few moved to the door excitedly, beating the wood uselessly with their hands.

The computer started beeping, pulling Tom away from the window. He rushed over, slapping the keys. The screensaver gave way to the new user group’s screen. It looked basic. Not like the chat screen he was used to.

“Come on, come on,” Tom mouthed as he waited for the connection to kick in.

Jesus, it was patchy.

The screen loaded, Tom finding Agent13 waiting for him.

“Yes!” he beamed. “Still in the ring, boyo!”

Tom hadn’t heard from 13 for a few days. He’d begun to fear the worst: that his old pal had succumbed to the flu like so many others. That he was left alone in this godforsaken world, with only his bird and the shuffling dead outside for company.