Fever (Flu) (30 page)

The pilot shook his head.

His eye fell upon something on the ground nearby. He reached for it, overturning what looked to Lark to be a wheelbarrow. The pilot shook a little foliage out of the barrow then looked at Lark.

“You have
got
to be kidding me!” Lark spat.

But the older man wasn’t smiling.

Lark swore angrily then limped over to the barrow and fell shamefully into its scoop.

The pilot handed him the gun.

Geri and the pilot took a handle each to drag the barrow across the dry-earthed fields.

They moved past some trees, Lark keeping his eyes open for any dead stragglers. He spotted one, standing in the middle of the field. As the wheelbarrow creaked past, Lark could make the dead thing out more clearly: an overweight hick wearing soiled jeans and a body warmer. Probably a farmer.

Lark fired, the first bullet striking the dead man in the chest. His second shot found the old boy’s head, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

Willis looked at him disdainfully.

“What?” Lark protested.

“You didn’t
need
to do that,” the pilot said.

He took the gun from Lark.

“Just like
you
didn’t need to torch the helicopter,” Lark countered.

“Yeah,” Geri said. “Pretty fucking stupid, that.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Willis said, sighing. They cut across another field, reaching a fence leading onto a road. It was deserted. Sun-baked tarmac rolled off into the distance, one end heading north, the other heading south.

A couple of trees stood a hundred or so yards to the south.

From one of them, a rope swung gently, holding the body of what looked to be a young man. Flies surrounded the body, their faint buzz the only sound the survivors could hear. The man’s eyes were open, glaring at them as they passed.

A solitary car was stalled by the side of the road.

Willis dropped his arm of the wheelbarrow then headed for the car. Within moments, he had it started, the car’s engine revving boastfully.

He dipped his head out of the side window.

“Hurry!” he called to the others.

The roads were empty.

Country life in Ireland was slow at the best of times, rural folks moving at a pace that would frustrate the average Belfastian. Now, it was even slower.

Nature was retaking the roads, its savage laws overruling the tarmac Kingdom before it. A flock of birds circled a dead sheep. As they passed, Geri watched the birds swoop, tearing into the carcass with their beaks, stripping the bone of meat.

She looked away, sipped at the bottle of water in her hand.

They’d found the provisions in the back seat, several bottles stacked with some tinned food and cans of petrol. There was a box of cigarettes which Lark grabbed, sparking one up immediately. Seemed like whoever owned the car was planning a long trip.

She was reminded of the young man’s body hanging from the tree beside the road.
Must have had second thoughts
, she mused.

Further down the road, Geri spotted a felled tree. It lay unattended, surprising them on a twist of the road, Willis having to brake aggressively to avoid it. As the car moved slowly around the blockage, Geri noticed the body of a man lying by a nearby stretch of hedge. His mouth was open, twisted into an eternal scream. It reminded Geri of the Edward Munch painting she’d pinned on her wall back when she was a student.

“Where are we going?” she asked the pilot.

He said nothing, keeping his eyes in front.

“Why did you torch the helicopter?”

Still nothing. It was as if he couldn’t hear her.

“He’s a nut job,” Lark offered, exhaling smoke out the wound-down window in the back. “And he’s driving. So leave him alone, for God’s sake.”

The pilot’s eyes blinked, his lips upturned slightly, suggesting Lark’s latest quip had amused him.

Geri was exasperated. “Look,” she said. “You come in your helicopter, boasting of some marvellous army base we can all feel safe in. Then you point a gun at us. And blow the bloody chopper up! I need to know why.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Willis mumbled.

“Try me,” Geri pressed.

“Okay, it’s not
you
they’re interested in.” He glanced in his rear view mirror. “Or
him
. It’s the little girl.”

“Brina?”

Willis nodded.

“What’s he talking about?” Lark said.

Geri looked to the back seat, her eyes finding Brina, sat beside Lark, staring out the window, oblivious to the conversation. The little girl turned and smiled. She looked calm, safe. Like this was all part of some family outing.

Weird fucking family
, Geri mused.

“That apartment block in Finaghy was under surveillance,” Willis continued. “Doesn’t matter why. But they saw the girl; saw that she’d somehow survived the infection.” He looked to Geri, his voice lower. “They want to run tests on her, see if she’s really immune. And if she is, extract some sort of antivirus.”

Geri looked at him, and in a quiet voice said, “Is that such a bad thing?”

Willis glanced sideways at her. “You don’t know the people involved.”

Geri sighed.

Why was everything so complicated?

She looked to Willis. “Look, we need to start trusting each other. It’s the only way to survive.”

Willis laughed. “Survival,” he spat as if the word was dirty. “That’s all you care about, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Geri said. Her tone was confident, defiant.

“You sheep are so bloody predictable,” he said. “I don’t care about surviving. I just want to know the truth. Who did this to us? And why? It’s the only thing that matters now, the only thing driving me.”

Geri shook her head. “Maybe Lark’s right,” she said. “Maybe you are insane.”

She looked out the window again. The car was turning, heading up some dirt track.

“You didn’t answer when I asked where we were going,” she said.

Willis smiled. “We’re going to see a friend.”

This had been the plan all along.

Find somewhere safe to land. Torch the helicopter (which was probably being tracked) then head via road to Tom’s place. They could hole up there for a while, decide what to do next.

Tom had seemed reluctant at first to reveal his location but eventually relented. He was still paranoid about Willis’ revelation about being a double agent.

Willis wondered just how the other man was faring in general. Mentally as well as physically. He’d got a few scares during his last couple of convos with Tom. Being cooped up could do things to a man, drive him insane.

It made Willis nervous.

He’d shared so much conversation with Tom online yet hadn’t a clue what the other man would look or sound like.

Did they really know each other?

Willis figured Tom would be of similar age to himself. He was into the same music and films. Yet, all the pilot knew
for sure
was that he trusted Tom. And that trumped everything.

He reached for the phone in his pocket, hoping to mail Tom, give him a heads-up on their approach. But it wasn’t there. He checked other pockets as he drove. Still no phone. He looked on the floor of the car. “Shit,” he murmured, eyes back on the road. “What’s wrong?” Geri said.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

***

The Chamber, County Armagh

Gallagher stood in the toilets of The Chamber, the smart phone in his hand.

On the front of the phone was a picture of Willis. Younger looking. Standing beside a young woman and child.

The phone wasn’t locked.

Gallagher tutted, opening the phone’s photo file, flicking through some other shots.

He found a video, clicked into it. The video was from The Chamber, footage of Brina’s appearance on the flat 23 surveillance camera.

Why had Willis recorded this?

It worried Gallagher.

The Chamber was built on secrecy. Nothing getting out remained key to the project’s continued success. An operative could be severely disciplined for recording classified data on a portable device. It was against the project’s confidentiality policy.

Gallagher checked Willis’ call record next. Nothing for weeks.

He checked the online activity of the phone, noting a particular site visited recently. Gallagher clicked into it. His face creased.

“What are you up to, Mr Willis?”

Ballynarry, County Armagh

The computer was still working, meaning a little juice was left in the generator. Colin knew he should be conserving the electricity for important stuff like cooking and heating water, but it hardly mattered to him now. And anyway, he’d heard Vicky running a bath earlier. Why couldn’t
he
be reckless too?

God knew, he
used to be
reckless. Kicking against the pricks. Doing his own thing. But somehow, this whole ‘world-ending’ thing seemed to have made Colin boring.

He took another swig of the bourbon in his glass. It was the only drink left in the house, but he was actually starting to enjoy it.

Colin looked back at the blank computer screen.

He was bored. This place was like a prison. Those fucking things had surrounded the house, meaning he couldn’t even step into the garden for a breath of fresh air.

There was still some food left. Enough for another week, maybe.

But after that...

They were going to die, and Colin knew it.

The three survivors had grown apart in the house. Each took a separate room and claimed it as their own. Vicky spent most of her time in the living room, sleeping or crying. Ciaran could be heard rolling around the kitchen on his makeshift wheelchair, retreating to the spare bedroom every now and then. But Colin remained in the study with the computer.

He’d become obsessed by the date on that fucking notebook page. He’d found books belonging to Chris, sifting through their pages to see if he could find the date tied into some theory or other. He found notes in margins, things his friend had scribbled to himself while reading and researching, but so far no date that matched.

Some of the authors Colin recognised from drunken conversations with Chris over the years. People like David Icke. There were others, his friend’s library boasting books from writers as diverse as George Orwell and Jesse Ventura.

Wasn’t Jesse a wrestler?
Colin mused.
Or an actor?
One thing was sure: Chris had been deadly serious about this shit.

Colin assumed it was all just a laugh. Something to talk about when drinking or smoking blow. But the more he read, the more he wondered if maybe there were some truth behind it all.

He found a ring binder belonging to Chris. It looked like his friend was working on his own book. The main focus of his research was outbreaks. Chris had made notes on everything from the Foot and Mouth Disease (linking it to some contagion named Picornvirus) to a variety of flu outbreaks: bird flu, swine flu, even the so-called Spanish flu from 1918. According to Chris, these outbreaks were all manmade. Worse still, Chris believed many of them were government or military sponsored.

But why?

It didn’t matter. Colin found what he was looking for on the final page of his notes. Chris had been brainstorming titles for the proposed manuscript. Circled at the bottom of the page, underneath several scored out alternatives, was the following:

DOOMSDAY—12/08/2016

It seemed to tie into Chris’ theory that all this messing about with viral agents would end in a mass and uncontrollable pandemic. That the pandemic would spread throughout the world like wild fire. 12
^th
August 2016 was the proposed date for this to happen.

Think you got your timing wrong, mate
, Colin mused. He went back to the screen, blew some air out.

He typed the date into the address bar: http[colon slash slash]12[dot]08[dot]2016

He pressed RETURN, waited.

Still no joy.

Colin had another thought, retyping the numbers, this time dividing them up differently:

http[colon slash slash]12[dot]08[dot]20[dot]16

He pressed RETURN again.

He tapped his fingers impatiently, waiting for the inevitable error message.

But this time something was happening...

Colin leaned in closer to the screen.

What looked like an old-school news group popped up.

A message appeared in the chat box, accredited to UNCLE TOM, the only user in the chat room.

It read:

CHRYSLER?

“Jesus,” Colin said.

C
hrysler? He must mean Chris.

Colin swallowed hard, his heart racing. His hands moved to the keyboard.

NOT CHRYSLER, he typed. CHRYSLER IS DEAD. A pause and then a reply:

WHO ARE YOU?

Colin breathed out some air. “Who the hell are
you
?” he said to himself, but typed:

COLIN. OLD FRIEND OF CHRIS. WHO ARE YOU?

Another pause. The computer was churning, Colin worried it might give any minute.

Then came the message:

ALSO FRIEND OF CHRYSLER. HOW CAN I TRUST YOU?

“Charming,” Colin said. “But the same goes for you, mate.”

He typed something similar.

Another reply:

TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT CHRYSLER. Colin smiled. He typed:

CHRIS WAS GAY. LIVED WITH HIS PARTNER BEN.

The pause this time was longer.

BEN TEN? YOU KNOW BEN TOO?

“Jesus,” Colin said. “Ben was into this shit too?”
And what was with all the silly names?
“So where the hell are you, anyway?” Colin wondered, typing the question.

He waited for the reply. It seemed like Uncle Tom wasn’t so sure of Colin.

And then it came:

CLOSE. NEED YOUR HELP.

“How?” Colin said. He typed it.

Another pause, then:

FIND EVIDENCE.

“Evidence of what?” Colin said as he typed.

The reply came quickly.

THE FLU. CHRYSLER KNEW HOW IT STARTED.

A coded file simply marked CHRYSLER contained all that Chris Lennon knew about the mutated flu virus. The same numbers that had been used to access the user group got Colin into the file, leaving the jaded survivor to wonder if his friend had, perhaps even subconsciously,
wanted
someone to get this information. To follow the clues he’d left, to seek out the truth. To both earn and be burdened with the terrible responsibility that Chris himself had felt.