Mutation (Wildfire Chronicles Vol. 4) (14 page)

Piss yourself and die you coward.

And then Drake was in front of him, screaming words into his face that Nick couldn't hear, but he understood. There was no mistaking the message, because there was only one thing
to
do, and as energy finally lurched through his muscles Nick did the only thing a lifelong coward could possibly do.

Run.

Nick took off like an Olympic sprinter, moving faster than he had thought possible, streaking past Drake. The far larger man was taking time to get up to speed, like a heavy vehicle, but in a few seconds Nick felt the man's presence behind him.

There was no way to outrun the thing
; it moved at the speed of thought. Nick searched frantically as he ran for something - anything - they might be able to use to defend themselves, but he saw nothing.

"We have to get out of the open," he gasped breathlessly
, unaware whether Drake could hear him or not, and Nick charged into the nearest doorway, spluttering in relief as he found the door unlocked.

With Drake trailing
yards behind him, Nick raced down a featureless corridor, emerging into a mechanic's workshop.

For a moment he paused. The place was full of weapons that would have been formidable to an ordinary opponent: huge wrenches, welding torches,
a range of deadly tools both blunt and sharp.

All were useless.
How could you take a swing at something you couldn't even see?

Faintly, in the corridor behind him,
Nick heard the door he had entered moments earlier exploding from its hinges and he took off again, expecting that at any moment he would be plucked from the floor and ripped apart. He burst through the next set of doors into another corridor, and saw several others branching from it.

Maybe we can hide?

He dismissed the thought when he heard another shattering crash somewhere behind him, and he rocketed down the corridor toward the doors at the far side, charging into the huge space beyond.

The cavernous room was home to a host of vehicles, some undergoing repairs, others waiting for their next period of use, which
Nick realised dimly might now be
never
. Vehicle use might just be a thing of the past.

He saw Drake shoot off to the left.

Feeling a terrified whimper bubbling over his lips, Nick realised that the huge motorised garage door that led to the outside world was shut. It took almost a full minute for the thing to slide up. Pressing the button would be useless.

There was no time.

Nowhere left to run.

Michael wheeled himself toward the tower that Darren had pointed out as the one that they were using as a medical facility, "
for whatever it's worth
".

Narrow paths criss-crossed around the interior of the castle, and only weeks before the paths would have been trodden by families of tourists. Michael could imagine sullen teenagers trailing around after enthusiastic parents, focused on playing games on their phones, uninterested in the history of the plac
e, or the manicured flower beds, remaining stubbornly oblivious to their parents' attempts to generate interest.

Michael didn't blame them. The history of the place didn't interest him either. Maybe it never would have; but now history only had any use if it included lessons on how to deal with the entire population of the country suddenly turning into ravenous monsters.

Maybe we've reached the end of history
, he thought.
Maybe all the chronicling of the progress of mankind will just stop here.

He imagined future descendants - new species maybe - finding the books and artefacts that suggested a thriving civilization and wondering what might have happened to
halt the progress of the creatures that dominated the planet so abruptly.

Something Rachel had muttered came back to him.

Our evolution came with an expiry date.

For a moment he was lost in a fantasy. Had humanity risen time and time again, only to ultimately destroy itself, leaving a legacy in books and buildings and bloodstains, slowly eroded by time, only
for the process to begin again?

As he passed he saw some women planting seeds; a group of three men sawing long pieces of wood into symmetrical shapes. All of them seemed unwilling to meet his gaze, though whether that was because he was new there, or because of the wheelchair, he had no idea. Some part of him suspected neither possibility might be the truth.

He watched them working for a moment, and felt the old cynicism and depression bubbling away inside.

Is there any point in trying to rebuild,
he thought,
just so we can begin to destroy ourselves all over again?

Somewhere in his gut, Michael knew it was not just abstract philosophy. Darren had gone to great lengths to welcome them, but Michael could see through the facade.
Despite his best efforts to think otherwise, Michael's group was on a collision course with Darren's. Collision was what humans did best. In some ways, the Infected were the more civilized species. They didn't seem hell-bent on destroying themselves.

Just us.

He was grateful when he reached the door to the tower he was headed for. Time spent alone had always meant sinking into destructive introspection for Michael, even before the world had gone to shit. The worst thing he could possibly imagine was being the last one left alive, just him and his bleak thoughts. If it came to that, if he somehow lost Claire and survived alone he would take the infection and the oblivion that went with it, happily.

For a moment he paused at the door, wondering if he should knock, and the notion made him flush a little.
Knocking on doors suddenly seemed oddly archaic.

He pushed it open
, and the stink of blood hit him immediately.

The bottom floor of the tower was identical to the one in which he had spent the night with the others, save for the addition of a single mattress, which was being used like a hospital bed. The occupant, a young woman with what looked like a severe head injury,
appeared unconscious, her breathing rapid and shallow.

A rudimentary intravenous drip had been set up
above her, and Michael saw a low table next to the mattress which held a pitiful range of medical equipment: bandages, salves, painkillers. Most of it looked like the sort of stuff any ordinary household would have in a bathroom cabinet, and he realised that was probably exactly where it had come from. It was a far cry from the sort of the treatment the injured woman looked like she needed.

The enormity of the new world crashed down on Michael then. So much of his time had been spent fleeing from the Infected or dealing with the psychopath in the bunker
and his own subsequent paralysis - and now with the bizarre community at the castle - that he had found little time to ponder what life would be like if they were somehow able to find somewhere safe to live out their days in peace.

No electricity,
he thought.
No medicine. No knowledge of anything beyond running and fighting and being terrified.

An image formed in his mind, of trying to deliver a child. Trying to further the human race without the faintest idea what he was doing.

Even if we live through this madness, how can we possibly survive?

"You're one of the new people, right? You came in last night?"

Michael jumped. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't even noticed the woman descending the stairs from the floor above.

"I'm Michael," he said, and stuck his hand out for a handshake, before realising how ridiculous the gesture appeared. He withdrew his hand
, embarrassed.

"Are you hurt? There really isn't much I can do here," the woman said, and Michael saw the dark rings under her eyes. She had a haunted look about her. He would have guessed she was in her early thirties, and if he'd seen her a week earlier he might have said she looked plump and jolly. Now her face was gaunt and hollow, and exhaustion made her look more like forty-five.

"I'm fine," Michael said. "Apart from the legs. But I doubt there's much anyone could do about that."

He smiled warmly.

"How are you?"

For a moment the woman seemed taken aback, and Michael got the impression that it had been a while since anyone had asked her how she was holding up. She smiled weakly.

"I've been better, Michael. I'm Linda."

She offered her hand with a wry smile and Michael shook it with a sheepish grin.

"Darren said you were a teacher, before all this?"

He watched her carefully; scrutinised the way her eyes flickered a little as he mentioned the man's name.

"I taught at the high school. Science. It's funny, I never wanted to be a teacher. Don't really know all that much about science. I just needed a job. You learn the curriculum, learn the bits you need to teach. You don't think you're going to end up trying to perform operations on people with kitchen knives because you know what a double-helix is."

She smiled sadly.

"What about you?"

"I was with the police," Michael said.
"Small town. Never did much more than take drunks home. My first murder case was a guy that beheaded his wife and then started trying to eat people. Things have been sort of going downhill ever since."

Linda
flashed a tired grin.

"Sounds about right," she said. "You have any idea what happened? What caused this? No one here has a clue. Couple of people have been talking about the end of days, you know, like God's had enough of us."

Michael snorted.

"I don't know how it started, but I know it's got nothing to do with God," he said grimly. "In fact, that's why I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh?" Linda looked surprised.

"I was hoping you might be able to tell me a little more about that double-helix."

*

Standing in the shadow cast by the castle's huge main gate,
John felt his pulse quicken, just a little. It was the shotgun that did it. He hadn't seen any sign of firearms at the castle until he and Rachel met the four men at the entrance, preparing for the supply run into Caernarfon.

When he
got close, the shotgun was
all
he saw. That was no accident: the big guy who presumably was under the impression that he was going to be
leading
John into town brandished it brazenly. The gun was a statement. It clearly said
don't fuck with me.

When John found the big guy's gaze, he saw a sort of smirking confidence there; a smug, knowing sort of stare. It reminded John of the look that people had when they knew a secret that they weren't going to tell you. They just wanted you to
understand they knew
something.

This is going to go badly.

John didn't waste any time wondering where they might have got their hands on the gun: Wales was full of farmland. There would have been a few rusty old double-barrelled affairs out there, just like the one the big guy held so casually.

He saw John looking at the weapon and
smirked.

Very badly.

"Sam," the big guy said with a cold smile. "This is Brian, and that's Jack and Glyn."

He pointed at the three men who stood behind him like young children lurking behind a parent. They all nodded. None of them met John's eye.

"You know," John said, "five of us is probably enough. Not sure we need you to come along, Rachel. You won't be able to carry that much anyway."

That
was a mistake, and John knew it even as the words left his mouth. He tried to clamp his teeth down on them, but it was too late. Rachel bristled.

"Bull
shit,
John. I'll carry whatever I need to. Worry about yourself, okay?"

John sighed.

Sam rested the gun on his shoulder and snorted a mirthless laugh. He winked at the other three men.

"Obvious who wears the trousers here,
ain't it?"

The
three of them laughed in unison, but the sound was forced. The sort of laughter that cowards choke out in the presence of a bully.

John had heard it many times before.

Rachel opened her mouth, but apparently thought better of starting an altercation and snapped it shut. She was still glaring at John.

"Let's move out
, guys," Sam said. "You know the drill. Food. Medicine. And maybe we can get a collar to put on this guy for his missus, eh? A nice one, mind, with a little bell." He barked a harsh laugh. "No offence, feller."

Sam
winked again, and looked slightly crestfallen when John stared at him coolly and said nothing in return.

With a grin, the big man turned and unbarred the gate, striding through the arch and onto the bridge beyond, followed by the other three.