Outbreak The Zombie Apocalypse (UK Edition) (13 page)

I picked up the shovel, raised it level with his head and gently eased the bottom of the blade into Danny’s mouth, pressing down so his teeth parted as wide as they would go. Stepping in a little closer, I maintained the downward pressure but also pushed the handle of the shovel up and away from me, using the front of Danny’s face as a fulcrum. Even with me being so close, Danny had no instinct to back off despite what was being done to his mouth. I was food and if he could get closer to me, then he could feed, so he pressed forward, making my job so much simpler. 

As the rapidly wasting ligaments in his jaw gave way, first one and then the other side of the mandible popped out of position, and when I withdrew the shovel, the lower half of his face was slack and sagging. I stepped back and placed the shovel against the side wall, watching Danny as he tried to bring his teeth together with no success. I realised that he was no longer making any noise. I looked at him, long and hard, and I sighed deeply.

What on earth was I doing? 

I couldn’t be sure that the further injury I had inflicted upon him by dislocating his jaw was actually going to keep him quiet permanently, so I replaced the motorbike helmet. He didn’t resist me. Was he getting used to this way of existing already? I picked up the shovel once more, exited the shed and locked the door quickly.  I then wedged the shovel between the door and the floor, but I was fairly certain that Danny had neither the ability nor inclination to free himself from his prison. 

Once the morning came, my plan was to either go to the shop and get food for the two of us, or to check if the Tesco delivery service was back on track yet. I left the Range Rover where it was but walked to the front of the house and closed the gates. Even though I didn’t have to anymore, it was a habit I was going to find tough to break. 

I rounded the house and entered the kitchen via the back door. The lights still burnt. My mobile phone was on the table and had been on silent all night. I picked it up and checked the missed calls. There were seven from Nick alone. I would return them tomorrow. For now I had to think. I had got him back here, but how could I make sure no one found him?

I had lost all track of time. I often did when I sat with Danny. He stood there, his left arm, of course, still tied tightly to the rafter. The door to the shed was pulled shut; the bottom of the door rubbed slightly in the frame and this proved to be a useful tool for jamming it closed. I sat on the floor opposite him, the penlight torch playing along the lines of text in the Harry Potter novel that I was reading to him. I couldn’t make out the expression on his face through the darkness that the narrow light hardly infringed upon, but it was apparent that his head was tilted to one side. 

Was he actually listening to me? 

Every night when I removed the motorcycle helmet he was twitchy and seemingly anxious until I fed him. However, he made that monotonous ‘MMMMM’ noise less and less. I had started reading to him by mistake. I had just meant to sit with him and had taken my book with me. Without realising what I was doing, I had found myself speaking the words out loud, and from the first paragraph it seemed to have a calming effect. The genre of book made no difference; I had to assume that it was the sound of his old life that was having this particular impact upon Danny.

I sat with my knees raised, the book balanced on them, one hand fingering the pages over, the other holding the tiny torch, my back against the wooden side of the shed. I’d often just pause in reading and look at him for a while, trying to see past those cold, dead eyes. It seemed as if he had paid attention for a while, studying me in reply, but had then begun to pad forward and back until I opened the book to our last passage and, with a short recap, began to read. The torch dipped a couple of times as my hand grew limp and tired, my eyelids growing heavy, so, with a shake of my head to rouse myself, I marked our place in the book and pushed it into the corner, lifting myself to my feet with the torch gripped in one hand. 

‘Sorry, Danny, I’m too tired,’ I said, walking around him and picking up the motorcycle helmet. 

I sniffed at it and recoiled at the stench. I would have to either clean it or get Danny a new one. The torch lit only a small circle on the back of his neck as I gently eased the helmet over his crown. The skin there was pale and flaky, the bones beneath pressing tightly against it as if they may break through at any moment. 

‘Good night, Danny,’ I whispered, as I did every night when I went through this procedure.

‘MMMM,’ he replied, and then it sounded like something got stuck in his throat.  

I could have sworn that he said ‘Ed’.

‘What the heck?’ I stumbled backwards and only stopped when I bumped into the wall of the shed.

‘What did you say?’

He turned his head a little, as if trying to see me behind him. Again, that half choking, half clearing his throat sound. 

And then, more clearly this time, ‘Ed.’

As soon as the mobile phone that I had been ignoring stopped ringing, the house phone began. It had reached the point where every time I saw ‘Nick’ come up as the incoming call, I could not bring myself to answer it. The phone continued to ring, and I finally relented and snatched it up.

‘Hello?’

‘Matt, Nick here. Listen…’

‘Nick, I’m not going. I…’

I had been invited to an awards ceremony to receive medals for what Danny and I had done to rescue those people. I thought the whole thing was a joke and wanted no part of it.

‘No, I’m not talking about that. Are you watching the news?’

‘No.’

‘Then turn it on. They’re explaining what happened. You won’t…’

I hung up on him, grabbed the remote control and switched on the television to the BBC. The newscaster was immaculately dressed, his tie perfectly contrasting his pristinely ironed shirt. It was a giant step away from how the news had been updated during the epidemic. I sat on the arm of the sofa and focussed on the report.

‘…have now accepted full responsibility for what was meant to have been a terrorist attack on the United Kingdom. The evidence found in a farm house in the United States, just north of New York, detailed the plot and, as has been previously reported, bodies were found that contained the same toxin which was discovered in each and every victim of the epidemic here.’

This was nothing new. What had gotten Nick so agitated?

‘Computer files extracted from the farmhouse have indicated that the toxin was to be transported to Britain in small quantities by around twenty five different individuals. Once the toxin was brought together as a whole, it was to be added to the London water reserves and via this would have been introduced to the general population. Experts who have analysed both the toxin and the files have ascertained that, when diluted, the effect would have been to make the population of London docile and listless. The terrorists would then have engaged upon a bombing spree across the capital, meeting with minimum resistance. The scope of the disaster would have been massive.’

The reporter took a breath, and I wondered if this was to give us, the viewers, an opportunity to take in what had been said.

‘It has been suggested that the toxin was being carried in a number of different ways and that on the particular flight from New York to London that precipitated the epidemic, it would appear that whatever vessel was being used was damaged and the toxin leaked out. According to the details extracted from the farmhouse, direct contact with the toxin had not been properly tested, but the end result has had more impact than the terrorists could possibly have hoped for. More details are emerging on almost an hour to hour basis, so we will keep you as informed as we are. Once again…’

This was unbelievable. It was being reported in such a matter of fact way, but this had all happened as part of a terrorist plot. What was our government’s reaction to it going to be? I thought back to the footage I had seen back at the start of the outbreak; the woman in Liverpool and the businessman at Heathrow. They must have been on
that
flight. Had it been in the terrorist’s hand luggage, within the legal limits for liquid on a flight? Made to look like aftershave, or toothpaste or who knows what? The container must have been breached in some way, broken? And then what? 

It didn’t matter if it had been inhaled or absorbed through the skin; the full strength of the toxin had attached itself to a human host and the rest was almost the breakdown of our civilisation. 

The phone rang again. I knew it would be Nick, but ignored it anyway.

I now saw what as I was doing as more than trying to save my brother; it was an act of defiance against the terrorists, and now I felt more vindicated in protecting Danny’s existence than ever before. It was what he would have wanted.

I’d spent the morning with my brother but now locked the shed carefully in anticipation of Nick’s arrival. He’d phoned the previous evening and asked if it was okay if he came by at noon the next day. I had not seen much of him, but to be truthful, I had not seen much of anybody. I was sick of the questions and the stares. It was easier to have the shopping delivered, to be by myself than it was to eat out or go to the pub. When I did see Nick, it was more often than not in the pub, and that had been one of the reasons why I had made myself available to see him at home. 

As had become my habit when I was expecting visitors, I waited on the driveway so I would be able to open the gates for them upon their arrival. I didn’t like the idea of leaving them wide open. It wasn’t just the aftermath of the epidemic that had bred that into me but the fear that a nosy neighbour, or worse, the newspapers, would take their prying a step too far.

Cars passed in both directions, and although the rain had stopped they still cast up spray from the road. The dark clouds overhead promised another downpour was due but for now it held off and the temperature was warm enough with those clouds acting as a layer of insulation. A car approached from the right and I could tell it was slowing, so made my way to the gates, pulling them inwards. Nick waved from the driver’s seat and parked with the front of his Citroen facing the garage doors. I closed the gates behind him and walked, feet slipping on the wet gravel, back towards the front door.

‘Kids not with you?’ I asked as he locked his car.

‘No. Not today. They wanted to come but I need to talk to you alone,’ he replied.

‘That sounds ominous. Is everything okay?’

‘It will be.’

I opened the door and let Nick step in ahead of me. We sat at the kitchen table and I offered him a tea, a coffee, and after two refusals, a proper drink. He still said no. He just sat with his hands flat on the table, looking down into his lap. He had me worried. Had he been out to visit when I wasn’t expecting him? Had he seen me going into the shed with a bowl full of raw meat? Had he investigated further?

‘Jenny’s gone, Matt. She left us three months ago. I’ve been making excuses why she isn’t around, but she’s gone.’

I wasn’t expecting that. ‘What? Gone where?’

‘I don’t know. She calls every now and then, but that’s got less over the weeks. Mate, I had to tell someone. And after what we went through together…’

There he went with our bond again. I had every sympathy for him up to that point. Now it was a bit easier to understand why Jenny had upped and left. What I couldn’t understand, though, was how she could leave her children.

‘How’re the kids taking this?’

‘They’re okay. Thanks, mate. They miss her, obviously, and ask a million questions a day about whether she’ll be coming back. My parents are visiting and they’ll stay a while, I hope. I’ve had to miss quite a bit of work.’

I watched him, shoulders slouched, eyes cast down, and I did the only thing I was capable of doing to help the situation.

‘How’re you fixed for money?’

That’s when he looked up. ‘What? No. That’s not why I came here.’

‘Nick, listen. That I
do
know. But if you’ve missed work and Jenny’s wage isn’t coming in, I can only guess the extra pressure you’re under.’

‘My parents have helped a bit, but… Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Just give me a minute.’

I left the kitchen and passed through the lounge to my father’s study. I took my chequebook from the desk drawer, glancing up at the polished sword now once again hanging from the wall. I wrote the cheque out quickly and tore the slip off. I walked back into the kitchen and placed it face down on the table.

‘Look. It’s there, it’s not a hassle. End of conversation. Okay?’

‘I don’t know what to say. After all you’ve done…’

‘Right. That’s what you can do. You can stop saying thanks and…’ 

He had dropped his forehead to rest on his hands. 

‘And you can please not cry.’

He actually laughed at that, standing up and giving me a hug.

‘You’ll be okay,’ I said, a bit softer that time. ‘Come on. Let’s have that drink.’

And an hour later, when he left, I felt better. I had talked to him about how things were for him and the children and I think that was more cathartic than the cheque for both of us. I waved him off at the gate, pushing them shut as he pulled away.

*                            *                              *

Danny stank. There was no other way to describe it. He reeked of a combination of body odour and, though I hated to admit it, decay. What remained of his right shoulder still oozed sticky brown pus every now and again, especially when the weather was warmer. I wasn’t sure if he was going to the toilet in his leather trousers, but I honestly didn’t think so; the smell would have been ten times worse. 

His cheek bones were massively pronounced, as I was sure his jaw would have been too if it was still properly attached to his face. His skin was chalk white. The grey birds’ eggs that had replaced his eyes were riddled with tiny red lines and could almost warrant being described as blood shot. 

For over six months, I had fed him and talked to him and read to him, and he was calmer and more subdued on a month to month basis. He no longer tried to snatch at the meat with his damaged mouth, and when I spoke to him, I genuinely believed that his body language, the tilt of his head to the side, meant that he understood most of what was going on.