Apocalypse Cow (16 page)

They piled into an interior thick with the smell of old lady. As the engine chugged into life, a figure walked around the far side of the building. Light from the security spotlights glinted off a pair of spectacles.

‘Get going,’ Lesley said from the back seat.

Brown ran to intercept them as the car crept forward and
Terry
made to open the door, intending to give him a proper kicking. When the running man pulled a gun out of his jacket, Terry took his hand off the door handle.

‘Hurry,’ he yelled.

The professor took ‘hurry’ to mean ‘proceed at a leisurely pace while fumbling for second gear’. Before they reached the gate, Brown was in front of them and pulling the trigger. Three bullet holes starred the windscreen. One of the projectiles whined past Terry’s head. He reached across and pressed his hand down on Constance’s foot, which was barely touching the accelerator. The car leapt forward, engine screaming, and two thuds shuddered through the bodywork: one from the collision with Brown and another as they slewed through the gate. Terry lifted his head and looked in the rear-view mirror. Brown, who was lying on the ground where the car had tossed him, lifted his head to stare after the departing vehicle.

They had been driving for five minutes in shocked silence when the professor groaned and slumped over the wheel. The car skidded to a halt.

‘What’s wrong?’ Lesley asked.

Constance lifted her head. ‘I think I’ve been shot.’

Terry gently lifted Constance off the wheel and pulled back her jacket and dark blue blouse, revealing a ragged hole gurgling up thick blood. Behind chunky black-framed glasses, her grey eyes were glazed with pain. Her narrow lips, covered in a light sheen of pink lipstick, were open to reveal a small tongue resting on a row of teeth too perfect and white to be anything other than falsies. But it was the bunched-up furrows and wrinkles around her mouth, eyes and nose that betrayed the depth of her suffering, adding at least ten years to her age.

‘How bad is it?’ Lesley asked.

‘I’m not an expert, but it doesn’t look good.’

A quick rummage in the glove compartment provided him with a windscreen cloth, which he jammed against the wound.

‘Hold that,’ he told Lesley.

He got out of the passenger seat and rounded the car, glancing nervously up the road. There was no sign of a pursuing vehicle. The reason for this absence became clear seconds later as the crump of a distant explosion reached his ears. Brown must have deemed destroying the building more important than chasing them.

‘I’m going to move you so I can drive,’ he told Constance, even keener to get going now that Brown’s primary task was seemingly accomplished. ‘Are you OK with that?’

Constance nodded. Terry tried to be as gentle as he could, but the elderly woman still let out a howl of pain as he lifted her out of the door. With Lesley’s help, he laid her on the back seat, trying to make her as comfortable as possible and leaving the seatbelt untethered to protect her shoulder. They set off again, Lesley holding the cloth firmly against the gunshot wound.

‘What do we do now?’ she asked.

‘We need to get her to a hospital,’ Terry replied.

‘No,’ Constance said. ‘Brown will look there.’

‘But we need to get you some help,’ Lesley said.

‘You can help me get the truth out,’ Constance hissed through clenched teeth. ‘That’s all that matters now.’

Terry fell silent and concentrated on the road. Even though it was only nine p.m., according to the car’s battered old clock, and they were coming into Bearsden, where there would
normally
have been other cars on the road and people out walking, there was no sign of life. The street lights were out and every window dark.

‘What happened to the power?’ Lesley asked.

‘Out,’ Constance said, every word now an effort. ‘Same across lot of the country. Animals. Communications cut too. By government. TV and radio shut down. Emergency broadcasts only.’

‘Why would the government do that?’ Terry asked.

‘Need to control information. Don’t want world to know how bad things are.’

‘But this is Britain,’ Terry said. ‘We don’t do things like that.’

‘Governments do what they can get away with,’ Lesley responded.

Terry clicked on the radio. The BBC channels were broadcasting an emergency message telling people to stay indoors and wait for evacuation. There was only static where the independent channels used to be. He turned it off again. When he looked up, there was a rubbish sack in the middle of the road, which he swerved to avoid. It was only when the headlights cast their yellow light briefly over another two bundles lying on the tarmac that he realized they were bodies.

‘Did you see that?’

‘Yes,’ Lesley responded curtly. They both fell silent.

As the car chugged through the streets, the racket produced by the old engine increasing Terry’s nervousness, he became aware of movement in the corner of his eye: twitching curtains following the car’s progress like a Mexican wave. At least some people were still alive. Terry turned right at the next junction and saw the sign for a doctor’s surgery lit up by the near-full moon. He pulled up outside.

‘They’re bound to have bandages, medicine, that kind of thing, in there.’

He was about to open the door when Constance summoned up enough strength to grab his shoulder. ‘Make sure … no animals.’

They sat in the car, the old lady’s laboured breathing the only sound. A leg was poking out of the security door that led into the stairwell to the flats above the surgery, propping it open. After a moment’s hesitation, Terry thrust the car door open and stepped out, glancing up and down the street. No alarm went off when he smashed a pane of glass with the base of the hefty torch he had found under the driver’s seat and unlocked the door. They carried the professor inside as fast as they could, wincing at her cries of pain.

Once inside, Terry turned on the torch and locked the door. They dragged Constance, thankfully now unconscious and spared further agony, into the nurse’s station at the back of the surgery.

‘So now what?’ Lesley asked after they had laid Constance out on the padded examination bench.

‘We find some tools,’ Terry said.

He rifled through the drawers until he found scissors, a small scalpel, a pair of tweezers, a needle, surgical thread, alcohol and bandages. Meanwhile, Lesley rummaged through Constance’s pockets and came out with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

Terry stared at her.

‘Is that appropriate?’

Lesley refused to meet Terry’s gaze. ‘I’m not being heartless, I just really, really need a cigarette, OK?’

He looked at Lesley’s pale face and the grim set of her lips, and nodded.

Lesley lit up and blew out a long stream of smoke with a shuddering sigh as he laid the instruments out beside the professor, who had leaked blood over the white sheet draped across the table.

‘Have you ever taken a bullet out before?’ Terry asked.

‘I work at the
Glasgow Tribune
, not the
Baghdad Bugle
,’ Lesley said.

Terry sighed. ‘Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll need you to hold the torch for me.’

Terry removed the cloth and poured rubbing alcohol into the wound. The professor didn’t wake up as he slid the tweezers into the hole, and dug around wetly. It took him three attempts to get a hold on the bullet, and another two to pull it out. Still the professor remained unconscious. It was only when he began clumsily sewing up the wound that she came to and let out a roar of pain that belied the slightness of her frame. Lesley let Constance grip her hand, looking into her wild eyes.

‘It’s OK,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll be over soon.’

Constance’s eyes had rolled back into her head and her eyelids had closed when something rustled outside. Terry looked over at the window, which gave onto the back garden. It was standing open at the top. He flung himself across the room and slammed the window closed seconds before a hissing, spitting ball of fur threw itself at the gap. The cat slid down the pane, its claws etching little scratches into the glass. It remained on the sill for a few seconds, bathed in moonlight as it gnawed at the glass, before dropping to the grass and streaking off.

‘That was close,’ Terry said, turning back to Lesley just as a filthy little Scottie dog rocketed into the room.

It leapt into the air, sailing in a perfect arc to land on Terry’s shin, and immediately began to hump his bare leg. Terry shook his leg furiously, but the dog would not let go, tongue lolling out as it worked itself into a frenzy. Its dick was warm and squishy against Terry’s leg, like a jelly baby left on the dashboard on a sunny day.

‘Oh, perfect,’ Terry said.

He turned to Lesley, who was shining the torch on the dog to better watch the show and gutting herself. ‘Stop laughing and get me a paper towel or something.’

Just when Terry thought the randy dog was going to let go, it lifted its head to stare at him with beady little eyes and bared its teeth. Terry had seen that look before.

‘The little bastard’s infected,’ he said.

Terry reached down and grabbed the dog’s hind legs with both hands. It snapped at his wrist, missing. He swung the dog up over his shoulder as though preparing to deliver a hefty blow in a pillow fight, then smacked its head on the nurse’s desk with as much force as he could muster. It yelped and struggled until he had repeated the move three times and brains were spattered in a line arcing from the centre of the ceiling to the wall just above the desk. He kicked the body into the hallway and closed the door.

‘You were no help,’ he scolded Lesley, who was no longer laughing.

He hunted for a towel and wiped down his leg.

‘Are you sure it was infected?’ Lesley asked. ‘It’s not like a dog humping a leg is abnormal behaviour. Maybe it was just horny … Ah.’

‘What do you mean, “ah”?’

‘It’s just that when I was being held, they made me watch
someone
being attacked by a bull.’ She paused. Her voice was flat when she continued. ‘It tried to have sex with him before it killed him. Brown said it was part of the virus.’

‘Great. Just what we need. Sex-crazed and murderous.’ Terry sighed and turned back to Constance. ‘Well, let’s get her sewn up.’

He picked up the needle and got back to work. This time the professor did not awaken.

Terry sat with his back against the door while Constance lay in an uneasy sleep – helped by a handful of painkillers they had found in one of the drawers – occasionally muttering and groaning. He looked at her long and hard. He should be angry at her, since she was one of the people who had created the virus, but she was old, frail and wounded – plus she had stuck her neck out to save them. Brown was a much easier target for his hatred.

Terry had turned off the torch to save batteries, but the light from the moon was strong enough for him to observe Lesley, who was sitting in a chair next to the examination bench, her head thrown back. For the first time, Terry took a proper look at her. Her two-piece business suit was crumpled, her brown hair was dishevelled and there were smears of blood across her nose. Even so, Terry liked what he saw: particularly the way her slim neck arched down into her cleavage.

Lesley turned her head towards Terry. He pretended to adjust position just in case she had caught him staring.

‘So, Terry, sole survivor of the abattoir attack,’ she said. ‘What’s your story?’

‘Wrong place, wrong time,’ he replied.

‘Come on, I need more than that.’

Terry sighed, and told her what had happened. She peppered him with questions throughout.

‘What about you?’ he asked when he was finished.

‘They thought I was some shit-hot journalist who was going to blow the whistle on them. They were wrong.’

‘So you’re not a journalist?’

Lesley looked at her feet. ‘Yes, just a shit one.’

There followed a silence in which Terry was unsure if he was supposed to disagree with her. He was never very good at reading women’s cues, plus he had only known her for a few hours and couldn’t remember seeing her name in the
Glasgow Tribune
. He had no idea if she was actually shit.

‘So you work in an abattoir, then,’ she said eventually. ‘What’s that like?’

‘It’s like stabbing a sperm whale to death with a toothpick,’ he replied, hauling out his stock-in-trade response.

‘How so?’

‘Brutal, mind-numbingly repetitive, and painful on the wrists.’

Lesley looked unmoved. ‘Very funny. What’s it really like?’

Terry shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s a job. You get used to it.’

‘It doesn’t mess you up, killing things all day?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘So there’s nothing bad about the job at all?’

Terry paused. Usually people took the hint after his sperm whale comment, which was explicitly designed to ward off the questions about the imagined horrors of his job that inevitably followed when he revealed what he did for a living. On the rare occasion he was put in this position, he didn’t talk about the stench in case, by some miracle, the other person hadn’t noticed it. This was a new situation, however. He was
sitting
in a doctor’s surgery in the dark, clad in a revealing robe, talking to a woman whose first sight of him had been a bird’s-eye view of his meat and two veg. When you added in the fact they had already been kidnapped and shot at, and were surrounded by animals intent on chowing down on human flesh, holding back seemed a little pointless.