Flu (18 page)

    But the seventh choice of name immediately struck fear into Jackson. A man he had encountered before, back whenever he had worked for The Chamber's interrogation project alongside Gallagher.

    "What do you know?" Gallagher said, laughing sardonically. "If it isn't our old friend, Patrick Flynn!"

    Jackson could hardly take his eyes off the screen. He suddenly felt hot, sweaty, as if the image were literally burning a hole through him.

    "Never thought you'd run into Patrick again, did you, sir?" Gallagher beamed, as if delighted. "How long ago was it? Ten? Fifteen years? "

    Patrick Flynn was a well-known IRA operative, serving time for various offences. Gun running was the worst they had on him, but they knew he was up to his eyes in it. His case was a particularly gruesome one. The Home Secretary was turning up the heat on The Chamber, threatening to pull funding if they couldn't get results. Gallagher, of course, was only too happy to try all kinds of new techniques to draw the information they needed to close the latest 'peace deal'. Something juicy to blackmail the politicians. But Pat wasn't playing ball. He was a veteran member of the IRA, so they knew that he was likely to have a lot they could use. But he didn't want to talk, no matter how hard Gallagher tried to rip the information from his tortured body and mind.

    "I'd love to meet with Patrick, again…" Gallagher sighed, as if reminding himself of an old friend. "We have unfinished business."

    "No way," Jackson said, suddenly. "I'm not going to do this shit anymore." He threw the mic from his hand.

    "That's what you said back then, too." Gallagher pressed him. "But in the end, you did what had to be done." The private was working through an onscreen file as they spoke. Jackson watched, nervously, as the various details of the case displayed on the monitor before all gathered in the room. The times and dates of each interview. The methods used by Gallagher to 'interview' the man.

    "They had my-"

    "Your daughter, sir," Gallagher said, finishing Jackson's sentence for him. "I'm sure no one here is judging you. You did what you had to do. Who's to know what those terrorists would have done to your little princess," he said, smiling, paternally. As if genuinely concerned about Jackson's well-being. "Would you like to sit down, sir? You look very unwell, all of sudden."

    "You son of a bitch," Jackson yelled. "They used me!

    They knew I had a reason to do what I did! But you! What reason had you?!" the computer screen continued to flick through the file, all eyes in the room fixed on the digital images that were downloading. They showed various pictures of Pat Flynn, his wife and his son, Sean Flynn. One image was taking longer than the others to load. It had the tagline 'LR' labelling it.

    "Do you know what 'LR' stands for?" Gallagher said to the private at the control panel.

    "N-no, sir…" the private answered, nervously. The tension was dampening the room with a thick, heavy smell. The smell of unwashed men sweating. But Jackson knew that Gallagher wouldn't be sweating.

    "It means 'last resort'," he answered, merrily. "And the good Major was the man who initiated this particular action. It was intended to break the suspect, to the point where he would be more susceptible to my methods." He looked back towards Jackson. "Did it work, sir?" he asked, as if needing to be reminded.

    "Fuck you," Jackson said. His eyes watched as the dreadful image was downloaded.

    "Indeed," Gallagher said. The image continued to appear more fully on the screen. "Did it give you pleasure, sir?" he asked, drawing closer to Jackson. He extended two fingers, shaping his hand like a handgun and pressing it to Jackson's head, "To shoot a young boy in cold blood?" the image finally loaded, flicking onto the screen and causing a sudden intake of breath around the room. The body of a young boy, hardly sixteen, slumped against a chair with a bullet wound in his head. Jackson couldn't look at it. He pushed Gallagher away, reaching for a Glock on the table. Gallagher stepped back, steadying himself, looking right at Jackson as the barrel of the Glock travelled towards an imaginary crosshairs on the doctor's forehead. He didn't seem to be afraid. Even under threat of death, this callous bastard had nothing to give, nothing to share.

    But Jackson felt a sharp pain stab him, as the sound of a silenced shot rang out, the private at the control panel firing upon him purposefully. He fell quickly, his own handgun rattling along the dusty floor of the control room to land at Gallagher's feet. His breathing became quick, his heart pounding in his chest like a hammer. He felt himself lose consciousness, fading out of the room like an old record. Everything was spinning around him, his eyelids starting to fall, as if heavy. The last thing he saw was the face of Dr Miles Gallagher drawing close to him, as if concerned.

Chapter Fifteen

    "So, there was nothing you could take?" McFall asked.

    They were sitting at the kitchen table again. Lark looked at the ski-masked man, shaking his head.

    "Did you hear anything I just said?" he asked, mouth agape. "You're a fucking dick, man…"

    "What?" McFall said, looking hurt. "I was just asking, like. I thought you might bring a few tins back for me…"

    "Some poor bastard over there got his guts ripped out!" Lark shouted, slamming his fist on the table, "and all you can think of is… what?!… your next beer?"

    "Look," George interrupted, "he's right. He may not be the most sensitive bloke in the world, but he does have a point. We do need to get more food and drink. And quickly."

    "But where from?" Norman said. "Every supermarket, every off-licence in town's likely to have been ransacked."

    "We have to think creatively," Geri added. "He's right, all the obvious places will have been hit hard early on."

    "Canteens," McFall said, looking around the room uncomfortably. "You know, school canteens and the like."

    George tilted his head in consideration.

    "Probably a better shot than a supermarket, that's for sure…" he said.

    "What about other houses?" Geri said, "Like next door, across the road. That kind of thing."

    "Oh, and there's a load of stuff in the car outside, too," McFall offered. "The one I drove on the day I -"

    "Nearly killed me?" Geri spat, shooting the ski- masked man a dirty look.

    "For the danger you'd be placing yourself in," George said, ignoring the tension, "I don't think there'd be much payback."

    "Warehouses," Norman said.

    George looked at him, quietly weighing up the pros and cons of the suggestion.

    "They'd be in the edges of the city," Norman continued. "Less likely to be hit, as much as the more central and obvious places."

    "Probably onto something there," McFall said.

    "How are we for fuel?" George asked, seemingly considering the suggestion from all angles.

    "Not great," Norm replied. "But we could grab some on the way, maybe."

    The five survivors thought about the proposal for a second.

    "We have to do it," George said, sighing. "What's the alternative?"

    "A couple of spoonfuls of mushroom soup. Chocolate for dessert," Lark offered helpfully.

    "Okay," George said. "We need to get some sleep before we do this. We'll leave tomorrow at dawn." He got up from the table, making for the door to the hallway.

    "Wait, who leaves?" McFall asked.

    George stalled, turning around.

    "We're going to need as many people as possible to get the job done fast. The Land Rover can take four of us, easily. There'll still be loads of space for the supplies. We may even find another van or something, to take more back with us."

    "Y-you'll need someone to stay here and mind things," McFall stuttered.

    George thought for a minute, rubbing the stubble on his chin. It reminded him to add razors to his shopping list.

    "Okay," he said, shaking his head. "If you want to stay behind, then stay behind." He kept his eyes on McFall, noticing how embarrassed he looked by his own cowardice. The poor bastard was constantly on edge, constantly on the defensive. Retreating further and further into himself, like a snail with a shell. George wondered if the balaclava was more to do with terminal shyness than any hope of shielding him against the virus. His mind was brought back to the yellow suit and oxygen mask that he had worn. How they had helped to keep him separate from the world around him, a world going to hell. How they had made it easier to do the things he had done. He was glad when they had run out of oxygen and the suits became worthless, pointless. He was no longer that man in that suit. This was a fresh start for Sergeant George Kelly, and he was going to make the most of it.

    Suddenly there were chocolate eyes staring up at him from within McFall's balaclava. The eyes of a child, a child still locked in a flat somewhere in Finaghy. A child that haunted him. George blinked, rubbing his own tired, red eyes. When he looked back at McFall, the man stared back nervously. No more chocolate.

    He looked at his watch, realising, mercifully, that it was late. It was time for bed.

    The sleeping arrangements seemed to revolve around Geri being the only woman in the house. She had the pleasure, therefore, of her own room, while the others had to sleep in either the remaining small bedroom or downstairs. Lark ended up bunking in with McFall in the smaller of the two bedrooms, while the two cops spread themselves out between the kitchen and living room.

    It made Geri feel safe. She was surrounded on all corners, her bedroom the furthest part of upstairs. She had the pleasure of knowing that if those things ever got into the house, they would have to get through the cops, then McFall and Lark, before she would be dealing with them.

    Geri pulled the duvet over her tired body, snuggling into the comfort of an old teddy she'd found in one of the other rooms. She used to have one of her own, simply called Bear, and she often had to check herself from wondering what became of it. It was the epitome of selfishness to concern herself with the fate of a teddy bear, come the apocalypse.

    She was hungry, the growl of her belly hoarse and uncouth over the stillness of the night. The sounds of hunger were uncannily like the sounds those things outside would make. Geri thought about that, for a moment, wondering to herself if the dead, themselves, were the very definition of 'hunger.' Hungry for flesh, sure, but also hungry for life, for the very thing that had been taken from them. Did they think, she considered, that in devouring the living, they could get one step closer to life themselves? Was it like some fucked-up version of purgatory? Either way, she hoped to God that she and the others would find food tomorrow. Otherwise, she would be seriously tempted to consider placing McFall on that fucking camping cooker he was so obsessed with fussing over. He did seem to be the weightiest amongst them. Well, maybe apart from the formidable looking cop. But, let's face it, no one was going to try and eat that scary bastard.

    Her tiredness felt heavy, forceful, as if it were tying her to the bed and blindfolding her. She couldn't fight against it any longer. She simply had to give in, allowing sleep to take her into its dark domain. She was under in seconds.

    Her mind refused to rest, though, eventually weaving through her hopes and fears to create a vivid dream. She could see herself standing on the street, wearing nothing but her t-shirt and pants. A sea of hot blood lapped at her ankles. She seemed strangely unaffected by it. It was as if it couldn't get to her, couldn't reach her for some reason. All around her, the friends, family, lovers she had known in the old world were drowning in the sea, blood staining their hair, faces, skin like thick sauce. They called out to her, and she tried to reach for them, but the sea cruelly beat against her hands, forcing her back with its ferocity.

    She turned, suddenly, to find George standing beside her. She tried to call out to him, asking him to help those around them, but he stood stoically still, the body of a young child resting in his arms as if asleep. As she watched, the child's eyes began to open. They were beautiful eyes, and they made Geri smile. But then the child reached for George's throat with its tiny hands, pulling his exposed skin towards its mouth and biting through like toffee. Geri was screaming at George, warning him of the danger, but he just stared at her, as if this were part of his destiny, as if to reject it would be futile.

    She woke to hear a hammering at the door. Her heart immediately leapt into her mouth as the cobwebs of sleep cleared. She realised it wasn't part of her dream. This was
actually
happening. The knock came again, harder and faster than before. It made her jump every time it hit. Was it the dead? Suddenly riled into a murderous fervour? Beating the door down and climbing through to devour them all in their sleep?

    She climbed, quickly, from bed, pulling on her t-shirt and jeans and leaving the room. Moving into the hall, she spotted Lark standing in the landing. His profile cut a sinister shape in the dark, tall and lean, like the Grim Reaper himself, revolver in his hand. He was looking down the stairs, towards the front door. He looked up when he noticed her, dark rings circling his eyes as always, his face tired and dishevelled looking.

    "What's going on?" she asked him, but he raised a finger across his lips to silence her.

    She quietly joined him at the top of the stairs. She followed his gaze, focusing on the door at the bottom of the stairs. It seemed so weak to her, all of a sudden, and she wondered how they depended upon it to keep the dead out. It was literally bouncing with the force of the knocks against it.

    She saw the bigger cop, Norman, moving towards it from the downstairs hallway, his own gun in hand. He cast a glance up the stairs. Lark shook his head, clearly advising the cop not to open the door, but Norman just smiled mischievously.