The Last Plague (24 page)

     He didn’t care. He couldn’t stop smiling.

CHAPTER FIFTY

They kept to the back roads. Rain gathered in the heavy skies. The wind had picked up.  Ralph stared out the window at a lone figure in the fields they passed. It was a naked man, his hands clasped over his chest like he was uttering a plea upon the sodden earth. The man’s stomach was distended and rippling; suddenly, it split into a vertical slavering mouth lined with human teeth.

     The man fell to his knees.

     Ralph looked away.    

     The girl was sitting between Ralph and Frank on the backseat. She was resting her head on Frank’s chest; he had his arm around her. He had cleaned her face of Bertram’s blood.

     Ralph had never been good with kids; they were just more annoying versions of adults. He could tolerate them, but barely.

     Florence had clung to Frank ever since they’d left Loxwood. She had eyed Ralph, Magnus and Joel with suspicion, but Frank had convinced her that they were the good guys, not bad men like those who had taken her. Frank had told her that they were going to look after her and keep her safe from the monsters.

     Ralph remembered the girl standing over the man she had killed. He wasn’t shocked anymore. He admired her. It required strength of will to take a life.

     Frank caught Ralph’s eye and nodded. Ralph could tell that Frank cared deeply for the girl. They shared something. A bond. The girl’s resemblance to Frank’s daughter Emily was uncanny. Frank hadn’t mentioned that detail before, and because Florence and Emily were so similar, Ralph was concerned about how his friend was reacting to her presence. He had seen the change in Frank even before they had found Florence in Loxwood.

     Emily had died two years ago. They had all mourned her. A child’s funeral was possibly the most heart-breaking thing in the world. Ralph had watched Frank and Catherine grieve and suffer, and eventually heal, but not fully, never fully. But they had recovered.

     Ralph looked at Frank.

     Frank was smiling.

* * *

Roads strewn with wrecks and human remains. A milk tanker was resting on its side across the width of one road. Milk had leaked to create a congealed white mud around the stricken vehicle. They had to reverse and take a side road that was no more than a muddy lane littered with broken tree branches and potholes.

     A house was burning and there were people standing around it, staring at the flames.

     The sky turned black for a few hours and when it rained it was like something unworldly. Something that could have been magnificent in a different time.

     They passed lone travellers hitchhiking. People packed into cars, just like they were. Riders on motorbikes and bicycles.

     They passed Haslemere, Hindhead, and Liphook. Dead places.

     Magnus wanted to forget what he witnessed there. A dark mass birthed inside him and festered. It stayed there like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He wanted to forget a lot of things. He wanted to go home.

     When he saw a dead child face down by the road, he felt like crying. He kept his hands gripped onto the steering wheel so he couldn’t see how badly they were shaking.

     Great flocks of the infected stained the land, hunting the refugees. Monsters and men. Dead livestock littered the fields. Bodies of men, women and children by the roadside.

     They passed a crashed Boeing airliner in a field of rapeseed. A torn fuselage among the garish yellow. Scattered wreckage. Rows of seats with their occupants still seated in them. Handbags and shoes. Spilled suitcases. Discarded clothes fluttering on fences and hanging on tree branches. Sheets of paper and Styrofoam cups drifted in the wind. More bodies pulverised and shredded; some had come to rest hundreds of yards from the airliner. A severed human head was on the road. The infected picked through the remains, scavenging carrion.

     “My God,” said Joel.

     Magnus was speechless.

     “Don’t look,” Frank told Florence.

     She asked, “Are we nearly in Bordon?”

     “Yes. Almost there.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Magnus stopped the car at the outskirts of Bordon. A red moped once used for pizza delivery was lying by the kerb.

     Frank turned to Florence. “Where do your auntie and uncle live? Do you know where their house is?”

     The girl put her hand to her mouth, concentrated on the floor. “It’s near the church, I think. It’s a dead-end where they live.”

     “A dead-end?” asked Frank.

     “A cul-de-sac,” said Ralph.

     Florence looked at Ralph, her face creasing. “Cul-de-sac,” she said slowly.

     Frank said, “Do you know what road they live on? What it’s called?”

     She shook her head. “Their house has a wall at the bottom of their front garden. On the gate is a sign that says ‘Beware of the dog’…but they haven’t got a dog.”

     Ralph scratched his mouth. “Well, that narrows it down.”

     “We’ll find them, Florence,” Frank said.

     Ralph looked at Frank and shook his head.

     “I hope they’re okay,” said Florence. “You don’t think they’re dead, do you?”

     “I’m sure they’re fine.”

     Ralph was sure that Florence’s aunt and uncle were either dead or infected.

     Frank smiled at Florence. “It’ll all be okay. Just you wait and see.”

* * *

The car entered the cul-de-sac. A crescent of eight houses in a row. Cars parked on driveways; other driveways were empty. There were dried patches of dark fluid on the pavement. A woman’s high-heeled shoe on the road. Houses with dark windows. Closed front doors.

     Magnus pulled up outside the house.

     “Is that it?” Frank asked Florence. “Is that the house?”

     A ‘BEWARE OF THE DOG’ sign was on the gate. There was a wooden bird-bath, leaning to one side, crusted with seeds and droppings.

     Florence nodded.

     The house was silent and still. The curtains were closed. It looked abandoned. But appearances can be deceiving, thought Ralph.

     “Let’s go then,” said Frank. “Florence, you stay here with Magnus and Joel, okay?”

     “But I want to see my aunt and uncle…”

     “You will, but I need to check it first.”

     “Is it safe for us to wait here?” Magnus asked.

     Frank said, “If you get any trouble, beep the horn.”

     Magnus nodded but didn’t look convinced. He glanced back at Ralph, his face drooping and weary. Ralph met his eyes, winked.

     “Ready to go?” said Frank.

     Ralph nodded. 

     “Good luck,” said Joel. He handed a torch each to Frank and Ralph, who then exited the car. Ralph was holding the flare gun; Frank hefted his axe, scanning the area around them.

     The world was silent. Ralph liked the silence.

     “After you,” said Ralph.

     Frank opened the gate. The two men walked up the stone path to the house.

     “What if they’re still home,” Ralph asked. “And they don’t want visitors?”

     “What?”

     Ralph gestured towards the house. “What if Florence’s uncle and aunt are armed to the teeth in there…?”

     “They could be infected,” said Frank.

     “That’s what I meant by ‘to the teeth’.”

     “Idiot.”

     “So we’ll just knock on the door and ask to come in?”

     “We’ll see what happens.”

     The lawn was snooker table green. Gnomes watched them with dead eyes and wicked smiles, having a whale of a time. White beards and pointy hats. One of the gnomes was standing by the small pond, holding a fishing rod. Goldfish sucked tiny bugs from the water’s surface.

     “Why are we here?” asked Ralph.

     “What do you mean?”

     “You know what I mean.”

     “I promised Florence I’d take her here so she’d stay with me. I have to show Florence that I’m here to look after her. It’s the only way she’ll trust me.”

     “You want her to stay with us, don’t you?”

     Frank avoided Ralph’s gaze. “She’s safer with us. We can look after her.”

     “She’s not ours to look after. She’s not our responsibility.”

     “Yes, she is. Her parents are dead. I saved her back in Wishford. We can’t just leave her. She won’t survive without us.”

     “Without you, you mean.”

     “What?”

     “I’ve seen how you look at her.”

     “Shut up, Ralph.”

     “She’s not Emily. She’s not your daughter.”

     “I know that.”

     “Do you? I’m not sure you do. I think your judgement is clouded by her resemblance to Emily.”

     “Stop saying her name.”

     “Emily’s gone. Florence can’t replace her.”

     “Shut up,” said Frank. “Please shut up.”

     “I’m looking after you, mate. I don’t know if Joel and Magnus have noticed it, as well, but I’m sure they’d say the same as me.”

     “You don’t know anything.”

     “I know more than you think. Florence can’t replace Emily. Florence isn’t your daughter. You can’t be her surrogate father.”

     Ralph looked through one of the windows and cupped his face. He could only see shadows and suggestions of dim shapes. Nothing moved. His breath bled from his mouth and fogged the glass.

     “I have to protect her,” Frank said. “It’s meant to be. What choice do we have?”

     Ralph stared at him. Frank met his stare and didn’t flinch.

     “If her aunt and uncle are alive, do you promise to let Florence go with them?”

     Frank closed his eyes. Opened them. “I promise.”

     “Good.”

     “But part of me hopes we don’t find them.”

     “Fair enough. I figured that. But if we do, you let her go. I’ll make you, if I have to. Our only aim should be getting home, not babysitting some orphaned little girl.”

     “What else should I have done? Abandoned her? Left her to die?”

     “She’s not our problem. You were never obliged to rescue her. We have to look after our own. You’ve risked your life to keep her safe. You could have left Catherine a widow just because of your fucking morals.”

     “I don’t want to argue, Ralph. Florence is just a little girl.”

     “You should have left her to die. Survival of the fittest. Darwinism.”

     Frank gripped his axe tighter.

     Ralph stared back at him. But then turned away from him and looked at the front door. “Do you want to knock?”

     Frank twisted the door knob, pushed the door open. He looked at Ralph. “Ladies first.”

     Ralph stepped through the doorway.

* * *

Ralph held the flare gun and the torch, expecting something to leap at him from one of the rooms. The hallway was tidy, nothing out of place. Coats hanging on a rack. A pair of woman’s tennis shoes placed together. Paintings on the wall. Looked like some sort of modern art, all weird shapes and bright colours, a nonsense greater than the sum of its parts. There was a small table in the hallway, topped with ceramic ornamental fairies, coins and an opened packet of chewing gum.

     A stairway beckoned him upstairs. Ralph turned away. Frank was checking the living room. Ralph followed him. Frank opened the curtains, letting in daylight. A beige carpet. Cream-coloured walls and a three-piece-suite. No bodies. A faint smell of air freshener. Ralph saw a stack of science fiction novels on a table in the corner; Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, and that bloke who wrote the book
Blade Runner
was based upon. A painting of Niagara Falls above the fireplace. More photos of a man and a woman. Looked to be in their thirties. They were hugging in each photo. And smiling. Lots of smiling. Ralph already disliked them.

     “Look here,” said Frank.

     Ralph looked. There was a photo of Florence and two adults. Her parents. Frank stared at the photo until Ralph took it from him and replaced it on the mantelpiece.

     “Come on. Let’s check the rest of the house.”

     Ralph pulled back the curtains in the kitchen. There was a smell of yeast and sweat.

     A man’s clothes had been discarded on the floor. A blue t-shirt and khaki trousers. Black socks and boxer shorts.

     “What do you think of that?” said Ralph.

     Frank crouched, prodded the t-shirt with his axe. “Weird.”

     “That sums up the last few days.”

     “They’re not torn,” said Frank.

     “But it looks like they’ve been taken off in a hurry.”

     “True.”

     “Do you smell that?”

     “As soon as I walked in here. It’s like yeast.”

     “That’s what I thought.”

     “What is it?”

     “Nothing good.”

     There was a door leading away from the kitchen into dreamy shades of ash and darkness.

     “You want to go through that door, don’t you?” said Ralph.

     Frank stood and looked at him.

     “You know, mate, you could just tell Florence that we couldn’t find her aunt and uncle, then she’s all yours to look after.”

     A flicker passed over Frank’s face. Maybe he was considering it. He shook his head. “It would be easy, wouldn’t it? But it wouldn’t be right. We have to do this properly.”

     “You and your conscience.”

     “What do you think’s through that door?”

     “Another room,” said Ralph. “Maybe a cellar.”

     They switched on their torches.

* * *

A set of steps led down beneath the house. Frank went down first.

    Their torchlights revealed a damp cellar dripping moisture from its walls. A dirty stone floor stained with mould. Cardboard boxes and junk piled in shadowed corners. Ralph’s face brushed against a cobweb, and he swatted it away with his hand. He ignored the thought of a spider skittering across his body to lay eggs in a sweaty fold of his skin.