Fever (Flu) (10 page)

He looked to number twenty-four. A single ambulance stood parked by the front of the house, a police Land Rover parked right next to it. It was an old man who lived there. Care workers went in to get him up in the morning then put him to bed at night. Sometimes, they’d wheel him out onto the porch and he’d wave over if Colin was leaving the house.

Colin unlocked the door to his own house, removed the sunglasses and went inside.

To say it was his house was not
strictly
true even though it was
legally
true. Until recently, the house belonged solely to his ninety-two-year-old Aunt Bell. Colin had moved in with her after his marriage fell apart.

A lifelong singleton, as Colin would call her, making her laugh every time, Aunt Bell had no kids of her own. And so Colin became the child she never had, shaming his own parents, whose duelling-banjo religion forbade them from accepting a queer for a son.

But Aunt Bell treated Colin the same way she treated everyone else: just as she found him. And Colin returned the favour, giving her the care most ninety-two year olds needed to stay independent. He did everything for her, helped her wash and dress, closing the door on the bored, lack-lustre care workers who pulled old Mr Twenty-Four out of bed each morning.

None of it sat well with the rest of the family. Soon neither Christmas nor birthday cards came through the letterbox. But then, as if to stick her bony old fingers up at the family which had rejected them both, Bell wrote Colin’s mother (her sister) out of her will, writing Colin in, and signing the deeds of her private semi-detached over to him.

“Aunt Bell,” Colin called, hearing her television set blaring from the front room,
turned up to eleven
, as he would joke.

There was no reply.

He entered the room to find her sitting on the sofa, staring at the television.

Something was wrong.

She would usually hear the door bang, and he would come in to her muttering about whatever she was watching, half to him and half to the characters on the screen. But she was quiet now.

“Aunt Bell?” he said, again.

She turned to look at him, her big eyes wide and watery.

“They’re closing the town,” Bell said in a hoarse voice then looked back at the TV. The report that Vicky had mentioned earlier was playing, some reporter talking about Stormont’s decision to ‘temporarily close’ Belfast’s city centre.

“It’s only for a bit,” Colin said. “Just ‘til this old flu goes away.”

He pulled his jacket off, dropped it on the sofa.

Bell looked at him with daggers in her eyes. “Hang that coat up,” she said, pointing to his discarded jacket on the sofa.

Colin shook his head, smiling. He lifted the jacket, left the living room, and hung it in the hall.

Something outside caught his attention. He opened the door, stepped back out onto the porch, looking across to number twenty four. A stretcher was being taken out by paramedics, the old man lying on it, wheezing and coughing violently.

Two cops followed.

The paramedics loaded the old fella into the back of their ambulance.

Waringstown, County Down, 14
^th
June

The yanks were going mad about it.

People were calling into Alex Jones’ radio show and talking about nothing else. There was chat about some laboratory in Belfast, with suggestions of foul play.

Nothing was confirmed.

Theories came thick and fast from the sites and podcasts Tom followed. They were citing everything from viral warfare to big corporations linked to Bilderberg, trying to make a quick buck out of developing a virus only they could cure.

It was both exciting and terrifying. Things were getting nasty out there, but a part of Tom revelled in it. He’d been the first to expose it all with the leaflet he’d been sent by his old mate Stan at the printers.

He’d heard nothing from Stan since...

It was as dark inside as it was outside.

So quiet he could hear the hum of the generator in his outhouse. He’d topped it up before sealing himself in. He’d used power sparingly. He really didn’t want to go outside again.

Tom sat in his easy chair staring at the boards on his windows wondering if he’d done enough to keep the virus out.

He’d created three defences.

Polythene covers were pinned around the walls surrounding the doors and windows, then sealed using the masking tape he picked up from the boot sale. Tom had then nailed large wooden boards across most of the glass and external door, leaving his bedroom window as lookout. His last line of defence was cradled in his hands: a brown plastic bottle containing his meds. This was potent shit. He would wash them down with vodka. There was no way he was going to let some damn virus tear him apart...

He popped one of the pills now. Needed something to take the edge of.

He heard the familiar sound of his chat icon. Tom jumped up from the easy chair and hurried to his computer. He read the screen.

YOU OKAY?

“Agent13,” Tom muttered, typing back his reply. “I’m okay, buddy, how are you?”

MORE INFO ON THAT CASE YOU’RE WORKING ON...

“Case? What case?”

A new link appeared, Tom following it to find a new file uploaded to their news group. He clicked on it, swearing as the all-too-familiar sight of encrypted data poured onto his screen.

“Damn it!” Tom exclaimed, feeding the file through his software. He hated the way Agent13 did this all the time.
Such a nuisance!

The information was decrypted. Tom’s eyes narrowed as he read. It was more on that Chamber thing, the old surveillance and interrogation racket. Government-sponsored of course, but old news now with all this flu stuff. Still, it seemed important to Agent13.

The new file contained a list of people The Chamber worked on. Some of the names Tom recognised as key political figures. Others he didn’t know.

Tom couldn’t really concentrate on it.

DID CHRYSLER GET IN TOUCH YET?

Agent 13 was talking about Chris Lennon, another key member of their local group. Chris was working on something big. He’d allegedly been to this lab they were all talking about on the Alex Jones show but wouldn’t share anything until he got all the facts straight.

“Still no word from him...” Tom said, once again typing.

HE’S GOT BIG INFO ON THE FLU. HOW IT STARTED.

“You see,” Tom said, pointing at the screen, “Chris knows what’s important.”

WOULD HAVE LIKED HIS INPUT ON THE CHAMBER TOO.

“Would you, now?” Tom murmured. “My
input
not enough for you?”

SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?

“Jesus, we’ve no time for this Chamber stuff,” Tom complained. He typed something to that effect back to 13.

IT’S RELEVANT, typed the other man.

“Hardly,” Tom said as he typed: “Let’s get back to the flu.”

SURE, 13 replied. IT’S GETTING WORSE. THEY’VE STARTED QUARANTINES.

“Quarantines?” Tom said. “What do you mean,
quarantines
?”

TA Centre, County Armagh, 15
^th
June

Ciaran was still half asleep as he carried his breakfast across the canteen.

He set his tray down at the table beside another lad his age, called Grady. An older man sat opposite. He was one of the newbies, wearing an old tracksuit instead of the khakis that Ciaran and Grady wore. His hair was dark, his beard full and sporting flecks of grey. There was an Eastern European look about him.

“How’s it going?” Ciaran said to him, extending his hand.

The other man looked up from his food. He seemed a little startled but shook with Ciaran enthusiastically. “I’m Ciaran.”

The newbie looked vacant, confused.

“It’s my name,” Ciaran said.

Grady was laughing.

The other man smiled, pointed to himself, said, “Ron. Name.”

Grady was in stitches. His body was shaking as he hid behind his arm, laughing from across the table. Ciaran shot him a dirty look.

“No uniform?” Ciaran asked.

Again the confused look.

“Uniform,” Ciaran said, pulling at his own green khaki shirt.

“Ah,” the newbie said, smiling. He shrugged dramatically, hands raised, palms pointing upwards. He said something that Ciaran didn’t understand.

“Probably here cleaning toilets,” Grady said. “Until they signed him up...”

“Shut up,” Ciaran whispered.

“Don’t worry. He can’t understand a word of English. That right, mate? Yeah?” Grady mocked looking to Ron.

Ron nodded, still smiling. “Yeah,” he repeated parrot-style.

“See?” Grady said, grinning.

“Leave him alone,” Ciaran said half-heartedly. But he knew Grady was right. An asshole, maybe, but pretty much on the money. It looked like they were signing up anyone who could walk in a straight line these days.

The news was playing on the television. Ciaran was drawn to it. The words FLU: LATEST were written across the screen. There was a riot outside City Hospital. Place was going mad.

“This flu thing’s out of control,” Grady said, pointing his fork at the TV. “There’s talk of them doing quarantines.”

“Quarantines?”

“Yeah, like going into towns where infection rates are high and locking the place down. That sort of thing.”

Ciaran laughed. “You watch too much sci-fi, mate...”

“Maybe.” Grady said. “But that’s how they’re dealing with this thing now. There’s talk of them bringing the Irish Army across the border to help out. More brits are being sent over too.”

“All hearsay.”

“You think?” Grady looked to Ron, who was looking back, concern etched across his face. “You wanna see some of the stuff they’re putting online. Man, that stuff’s crazy. What they’re doing at the docks and airports, keeping people in and all...”

“It’s just a precaution. To keep the virus from spreading. The army’s just keeping the peace, that’s all.”

“Mate,” Grady said, lowering his voice, “People are tearing the fuckin’ hospital apart.” He shovelled another mouthful of food, chewed speedily. “Some worrying shit going down.”

Yet Grady didn’t seem too concerned to Ciaran. Excited, maybe. But not concerned. He was the kind of asshole Ciaran was hoping to get away from. He’d known guys like Grady in school, guys who thought they knew everything when they really knew jack-shit. Mouthy bastards who talked a hell of a lot more than they listened, who took nothing seriously, who slagged everyone and everything off around them, just for the hell of it, just to hear the sound of their own voices. Fucking prick.

Ciaran looked back at the TV. They were playing footage from some office building.

Several cops dressed in yellow suits were dragging a middle-aged man out of the building. But the man didn’t look right. It wasn’t just the flu: he’d a crazed look about his face. His eyes were vacant, like he was on something. As the camera zoned in, he lunged at the nearest cop, sinking his teeth into his arm. The other cops were trying to pull him off, beating him with their batons like he was some mad dog.

Ciaran noticed one of the kitchen staff watching the scene unfold. He was resting against his mop, a pool of spilled juice gathered at his feet unattended to. The man’s face said it all, pale and drawn like he too wasn’t feeling the George Best. Sweat soaked his back, seeping through his clothes.

“Someone turn that off,” barked the Sarge.

The kitchen hand snapped out of his trance then called to one of his colleagues to switch over.

Ciaran watched as an older woman with a remote flicked through the channels, most carrying the same story. She settled on MTV, which, as always, was playing some dicky reality show.

The Sarge approached Ciaran’s table, carrying a neat pile of clothes. He lifted what appeared to be a white boiler suit from the pile, set it on the table next to Ron. “Uniform,” he said to the Polish man. “Ran out of regular GI threads,” he mocked, “so this will have to do you, soldier.”

Ron looked at the clothes, smiled and gave the thumbs up to Sarge.

Sarge looked to Grady and Ciaran, shook his head, then moved on.

The Sarge was a hardass. A weathered face and beer belly suggested more than a few miles on the clock. Ciaran reckoned the old bastard would have beaten the training into them, if he could get away with it.

“Most of you should know by now what to expect from me,” he said now, strolling up their line. “I expect the best. And I don’t mean
your
best, I mean
the
best. You’ll be in active service within the week, and, while that means your training will be fast-tracked, I don’t want you to think you can half-arse your way through it.”

The Sarge stopped and looked a particularly spotty young lad up and down, shook his head, then moved on. Ciaran stole a glance at Grady beside him. “Fuckin’ tit,” the other lad whispered. Stifled laughter filled their end of the line.

The Sarge looked sternly in his direction, but Ciaran kept his eyes looking forward, his face straight. The Sarge stepped in front of Ciaran.

“Something funny, boy?” he said.

“No, sir.”

“Well, why are you laughing?”

“I’m not laughing, sir.”

The Sarge held his gaze on Ciaran, sizing him up. He moved on, staring suspiciously at each man he passed.

He reached Grady, stopped. “Something funny, Grady?” he said.

“No, sir.”

“Well, wipe that smirk off your ugly face then, boy. Cos I’ll tell you this—none of you cunts have anything to be laughing about.”

He turned to address them all, then continued. “It may have bypassed you clowns, but it’s getting pretty ugly out there, and you’re going to be dealing with it sooner rather than later. It’s my job to make sure that when you’re faced with a tough call to make you’ve all got the strength of character and bloody fucking training to make it. Cos a laughing solider is a nervous soldier, and the army is no place for nerves. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir!” Ciaran called in unison with the others.

“Good,” the Sarge replied, sizing the men up as he paced the line again.

“Now, I’ve got something very special in store for you ladies today,” he boomed, marching down the line again. “This exercise is known as Fighting In Built Up Areas. FIBUA for short. We’ve kitted the range out with makeshift buildings and obstacles. It’s not exactly Baghdad; a little imagination and improvisation might still be required on your part...” The Sarge stopped at Polish Ron, the new recruit standing proudly, eyes straight ahead, wearing the white boiler suit he had been given as a uniform. “But you bozos know all about improvisation,” he added then laughed.