Flu (29 page)

    "He lost his friend," Geri said. "Maybe he's had an epiphany."

    George laughed.

    "You mean that idiot with the balaclava?" he said, viciously.

    Geri shushed him, clearly disappointed by his insensitivity. But he didn't care. Any last trace of 'caring' he had managed to keep within him was all but washed out, now. His only reason for not sticking the barrel of the Glock in his mouth and pulling the trigger was the promise he had made. A promise he wasn't even sure was worth keeping.

    (tell my wife she was right)

    He noticed Geri looking over to the body on the ground, covered with an old blanket.

    "Is he…?"

    "Dead?" George said, "Yes."

    He checked his gun as he spoke.

    "And dead again?" he added, "Yes."

    George walked towards the shutter, looking at Lark and raising the gun.

    Lark saw him coming, chucking his cigarette and putting his hands up, in appeal.

    "Fuck's sake, mate!" he said, falling and scrambling along the floor.

    George fired, clipping a quietly confident dead fuck on the side of the head behind Lark.

    Lark looked back, shocked at the approaching threat. He pulled his rifle from its sling and finished the thing off. Another creature appeared to its left and Lark fired twice to stall it, as well. He struggled to pull the shutter down, George moving in to give him some help. Between the two of them, they managed to get it down, just before another couple of dead fucks made it to the entrance.

    Lark looked at George, nodding in what George took to be gratitude.

    George nodded back.

    "You need to watch your back," he said, quietly. "Always."

    Lark looked uncomfortable, slinging his rifle again and moving back into the store.

    "Don't be such a dick," Geri said, approaching George as Lark moved away. "It doesn't suit you."

    "Oh, and it suits
him?!"
George said, pointing at the retreating Lark.

    "That's not what I meant," Geri replied, curtly. "And you know it."

    "Well what
did
you mean, then?" George said.

    "I meant you're a man of integrity. A man who doesn't need to get on like that," she said, looking him straight in his eyes. She reached a hand to check a tear erupting from his face, more out of frustration than anything else.

    "Well, the world's changed," George said, pulling away from her. "And I'm changing with it."

    Geri looked sincerely disappointed. George didn't think she had the right to be disappointed with him. After all, she'd left him here to die, shooting off with that… thug. With all they'd shared together, that was unforgiveable in his book. But his book was getting murkier by the day. His book reflected the world it was being written within, a vivid, horrific reflection of its backdrop. A book of death, of darkness, of sadness. A book sure to end both soon and horribly.

Chapter Twenty Six

    As the sun continued to rise, gently pouring light onto the outstretched streets of a reluctant Belfast, the few survivors left continued to wrestle with growing numbers of dead. Some, like Sergeant George Kelly, had all but given up their struggle. As the dead got progressively more vicious, the virus within them vibrating through every vein, artery and organ, the tired and malnourished living became jaded. Many couldn't cope. A single gunshot at 7.05am seemed to illustrate this, ringing out in Belfast's centre as yet another survivor gave up the fight.

    Yet for every man and woman putting a bullet through their own head or poisoning their last shot of whisky, there were others still struggling on. Still thriving on the longing to be free again. Castlecourt, one of Belfast's largest shopping centres, was overrun with the dead. They poured through crudely constructed barriers to breach the final respite of the living. A small pocket of survivors huddled together in a storeroom, few supplies left to see them through to the next day. In Templepatrick's airport, a group of the living, including some survivors from the nearby army base, fought fearlessly to hold back an increasing tide of dead fucks. They had held the airport for days, weeks. They were preparing planes for departure but needed just a little more time… just one last push…

    For many, it seemed hopeless and pointless to keep going, but survival instinct alone kept the few mavericks thinking, planning, conspiring. It's what had kept men and women going for years, through wars, famine, love and loss the world over.

    It was all that was left now.

    But for many it was enough.

    Throughout the world, the virus ran amok. But humanity fought back, bitterly, kicking against the threat of extinction like a dying man fighting for breath. Every last moment became precious or pointless. The coin could land on either side, the glass either half-empty or half-full. But someone, somewhere had refused to give up. Someone, somewhere fought to keep themselves and others alive. Someone, somewhere clung to hope like a drowning man to driftwood. And it was enough to see through another day.

    They pulled up by the tower block at Finaghy, George driving while Lark and Geri sat beside him in the front of the Land Rover. A large housing estate sprawled out before them like a grand canyon. An echo waiting to happen. In the end, this estate, like many others, had been completely evacuated, its remaining inhabitants packed into a bus and shipped off to one of the many rescue camps they'd heard were springing up across the countryside. The estate was now empty, save the dead and a number of parked cars.

    Lark marvelled at how the cars were parked so neatly, as if their owners intended to return for them someday. He wondered if they had thought the things that were important to them, the property they had accumulated, the houses and flats they had filled with… stuff… could all be taken with them to the grave. Stacked high, like some Egyptian Pharaoh's tomb. To be enjoyed in another life.

    "Here it is," George said, pointing at the block of flats opposite.

    Lark looked out the dirty windows of the Land Rover, eyes narrowing at the sight of countless dead crowding the entrance.

    "It's going to be hard getting through that lot," he said.

    "Are you sure the place is secure?" Geri added, "Because we could always try somewhere -"

    "No," George said firmly (a little too firmly for Lark's liking). "This is going to be the best place to hole up."

    Lark didn't trust the cop, never would. He knew Geri thought it was because he hated
every
cop, and she was right, but for Lark it was more than
just
that. His radar was definitely shouting ding-a-fuck-a-ling at this shit. Seemed to Lark like the cop had a vested self-interest in this place for some reason. He just wondered why.

    So he decided to ask.

    "Why this one?"

    George looked at him the same way the other fucker had looked at him during that night they were all drinking.

    "It was quarantined fairly early on" he said, "Just before they decided to evacuate people. It's going to be locked up tight. It's also likely to have cupboards full of canned goods and bottles of water. People were panic- buying around that time."

    "How do you know it was quarantined?" Lark pressed.

    "Because I helped do it," George said, without emotion.

    The quarantines had scared the shit out of Lark. Even the word 'quarantine' freaked him out. He was reminded of those dark days, all too recent, once again. Vicious and desperate attempts to prevent the spread of the virus. Men and women, sometimes whole families, literally being sealed into their homes and left to die. Reports of mass executions followed, the government's measures moving from extreme to despicable as their diminishing grasp of control slipped further and further. Finally, rogue police and soldiers patrolled the streets, enforcing their own brand of martial law, executing anyone who displayed symptoms or just looked funny at them. It was people like Lark, people who could move below the radar, who fared best during this time. Cynical enough to see through the bullshit promises of preventative medicines on bureaucratic posters, signposting to Emergency Medical Facilities in the rural areas. He had seen some people give in, desperately seeking out these camps with promises to return with food, anti-viral medicine and supplies. But Lark never saw them again. And he sure as hell wasn't going to follow them. He was a glass-half-full kind of bloke, and it had stood him in good stead so far.

    "I don't like this," Lark said, sniffing.

    "I don't care," George said.

    "Oh, for God's sake," Geri snapped angrily. "Grow the fuck up. Both of you. You need to put this shit behind you. Seriously! It's the only way we're going to stand a chance out there!"

    But Lark couldn't agree with her sentiments. He'd seen way too much to believe that forgiveness was the cure-all in this situation. Sure, he would go along with whatever kept his arse safest. But it was only because it suited him. It also seemed to be what Geri wanted. And that was important to him, regardless of whether he admitted it to himself or not…

    "Okay," he said, dryly, "I'll be good." He smiled sarcastically at George before looking out to the harem of dead that gathered around the tower block. Some of them were breaking off from the main herd and moving towards the Land Rover.

    "Any ideas on how to make a dent on this lot?" George said to the other two.

    "Sure," Lark said, lighting up another cigarette to the displeasure of his fellow survivors. "I know a way that'll work a treat."

    Pat peeked out the window, careful not to disturb the blinds too much. His eyes were fixed on the police Land Rover, like salt on a wound. It stood out from all the other vehicles. Large, adorned in armour plating and wheel guards. Obnoxious and threatening, even now.

    He hated it. He wanted it gone.

    The sight was met with a different reception by Karen. This was great news to her.

    "Do you see it?" she asked. He turned to look at her, finding her fully dressed and wearing make-up. Her clothes were stained, as if she had spilt paint on them. Her hands were messy.

    "Yeah, I see it…" he sighed. "Where were you, by the way?"

    "Nowhere," she replied, innocently. "Just in the room, painting the wall. I've got to make it nice for -"

    "Well, just stay away from the windows," Pat said impatiently. He didn't care what she did, as long as she didn't draw any attention to them.

    "But why?" she said, looking at him as if confused. "It's a police Land Rover out there. Don't you see what this means?"

    "It means trouble," Pat said looking at her as if she didn't understand something simple. "It always means trouble."

    He remembered the first time the police had come for him. He'd been holed up in a safe house in Dublin. It had been after one of his most brutal operations, a bomb placed by the side of the road as two police Land Rovers had passed.

    They had been outside, just like now. His wife had gone out the door, screaming and shouting at them, calling them all the bastards of the day. Several heavily armed units had circled the area. They grabbed her, pulled her down to the ground, gagged her and removed her like some kind of inconvenience. Later, her account of the ordeal would anger Pat. It would stoke his dampened flames, rekindling an old anger. And he would kill again because of it.

    But that night, Pat was upstairs, weighing up his options. His son, now a young man, had sat at the top of the stairs, looking down at the front door in the hallway below. He was loading a revolver, hands shaking, face perspiring, as he worked. He talked of how they would never get past him, how Pat should stay where he was.

    He was thirteen years old, and he was loading a revolver.

    Pat simply laid his hand on the lad's shoulder, bending down beside him.

    "It's over, son," he said, smiling.

    His son just looked up into his eyes. Pat knew he would have been happy to give his life for him, and he'd never felt as proud of anyone as he felt of young Sean that day.

    He'd gone quietly, then, but he wasn't so sure he was going to go quietly now. He'd seen what those bastards had been up to in the final days. The quarantines. Rounding people up like dogs. Dragging them off to 'rescue camps', where cures and vaccines and food all waited for them. All lies, of course. Death was all that waited for anyone. He'd never trusted cops or government types before, and he sure as hell wasn't going to trust them now.

    Karen moved towards the door, an excited look across her innocent, young face. But Pat reached it before she did, placing his arm across to block her from leaving.

    "Don't do this," he said firmly.

    "What do you mean?" she said, smiling as if stupid, as if unable to comprehend the very words he was saying to her. "They're outside. We've got to let them know we're here."

    "They don't give a damn about you," he snapped back, feeling the anger rising up within him. "We sit tight and let them pass."

    "What are you talking about?!" Karen said, grabbing his arm and trying to get past.

    "I'm talking about what was happening when you had your head buried in the sand!" Pat said, visibly and uncharacteristically riled. "The quarantines. The death camps. The executions. Don't you remember
any
of that?" There was every chance she did, but was, somehow, blotting it all out. Now, of course, she only saw the police Land Rover through rose-tinted spectacles. Perhaps, Pat thought, she
needed
to see it that way. If not for her own benefit, then for the benefit of the child.

    "Let me past!" she yelled, beating her fists against his chest. But Pat grabbed her roughly, slapping her face the way men used to do in the movies when women became hysterical. She screamed at him, tears erupting from her eyes like tiny fountains. He immediately felt bad, but he couldn't let his guard down. He needed her to be scared of him, needed her to do what he told her. This was important; it wasn't just her life at stake, or the little girl's, but his as well.