The Return Man: Civilisation’s Gone. He’s Stayed to Bury the Dead. (45 page)

Ballard’s eyes rolled in the bony sockets, and his lips puckered, and he looked like a dying fish, mouth opening and closing with soft popping sounds. He tried to speak–to impart to Marco some last word of science perhaps, some final discovery seen through the lens of his death–but instead all he did was burp a pink sticky bubble, and his
pupils contracted, and he flopped to the floor, his jugular pumping, his body a twitching island in a spreading sea of red.

Fuck no!

Marco couldn’t move–still not ready, too shocked to react, his legs ignoring the screams from his brain–and then all at once every muscle worked, and he crashed backwards, overwhelmed; he struck the edge of the operating table and bounced, his boots slipping. He threw out his arms to catch himself, but not quick enough; with a surprised cry he landed on his ass, and the M9 skittered and spun free across the tiles.

It can’t be
…

Several feet away, Wu stood over Ballard’s fallen body. In his hand the crescent knife gleamed wetly with a ridge of crimson. Marco gaped, astonished, as a red drop gathered and plopped like a gruesome tear to the white floor.

‘Wu,’ he panted. ‘No…’

Wu regarded him gravely, then bent and retrieved the M9 near his foot.

‘I’m sorry, Doctor,’ he said, sounding almost genuine. He holstered his knife and reached into his vest. His left hand emerged with the rubber-corked phial that Ballard had replaced on the rack. The vaccine. Wu held it aloft. ‘I have what I came for.’

What you came for?
Marco paled, nauseous again. And then he understood.

Of course… I’m a fucking idiot.

He’d been too caught up in his own shit to see this coming, when all along it should have been obvious. Fuck, Wu had even
warned
him on the train–the
vaccine
was the prize, the checkmate in this match between nations. Roger Ballard? Just a plastic, faceless game piece.

And so am I
, Marco realised, more angered than afraid.

A lump hardened in his stomach. ‘You didn’t have to kill him.’

Wu stared, unblinking. ‘Killing is what I do, Doctor. I told you that.’

‘He could have kept going–found the cure.’

Wu scoffed. ‘Cure? He was insane. His mind was disintegrating–you saw it yourself. We have our own great scientists in China. The vaccine will be all they need.’

The air in the lab deadened. The after-silence of Wu’s words stretched a second, two seconds, perhaps longer.

And then one word came echoing back to Marco.
China.

His brow furrowed.

China
…

Reading Marco’s face, Wu responded with a nod, barely perceptible. The slightest acknowledgement of a secret both men could finally share.

‘Fuck,’ Marco spat, hit hard by sudden, total comprehension. And then panic smacked him, too, and he pawed crazily at the tiles, palms slipping, and scrambled to his knees…

… as the red laser dot of the M9 centred on his chest and hung there, quavering like a tiny round heart. He froze, dumbfounded, and beheld Wu helplessly. In the sergeant’s hand, the cold black eye of the gun barrel leered back at him.

‘Stay down,’ Wu said.

‘You’re not American.’

‘No,’ Wu agreed. ‘Then again, Doctor, neither are you. As you may recall, your country disowned you.’

‘Bullshit,’ Marco snapped. ‘So you’re a goddamn
spy
?’

Wu said nothing.

‘All those computer break-ins,’ Marco said. ‘China, I assume. And what now? You want me to switch sides as a “fuck-you” to Osbourne?’

Wu shook his head. ‘Hardly, Doctor,’ he disagreed, speaking between thin stretched lips. ‘It’s far too late to trade teams. Besides which, I don’t need your help any more.’

He paused reflectively. ‘You were useful, but I must…’ He trailed off, and the barrel of the M9 edged forward as if to complete the thought.

‘This whole time,’ Marco said, understanding. ‘Your plan was to kill me.’

‘Yes,’ Wu said. A curt affirmation, perfunctory.

‘The RRU team that Osbourne sent. Did you kill them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jesus Christ… I
knew
you were a prick, that first day. Should’ve listened to my gut.’

Wu darkened. ‘Enough conversation, Doctor. It’s time—’

He jerked, distracted by a noise behind him. Ballard wasn’t dead yet. Roger had hoisted himself to his feet and was now bent against the counter, crippled, dragging his broken body towards the door–a feeble escape attempt, Marco thought. Smeared blood tracked Ballard’s progress along the stainless steel counter. His hobbled foot scraped the tiles; a soft gurgling emitted from his slashed throat as he exerted himself.

He reached the corner where the counter turned, and with a fresh injection of horror Marco realised what Roger was
really
after.

The electrical box on top of the monitor. The white toggle switch.

Holy Christ.

It’s the goddamn security buzzer.

The same epiphany struck Wu at the same moment. His eyes widened, and he wheeled with the M9, the red dot pouncing onto Roger’s spine…

… and as the gun fired, and a hole exploded in the back of Roger’s shirt, and the fabric jetted blood…

… and as Marco heard himself scream,
‘No Roger!’
…

… Ballard’s outstretched palm slammed the electrical box and held on, strangling the switch with every last volt of power his muscles could generate. Far off in the halls, at the security checkpoint leading into the infirmary, the buzzer roared to life.

ZRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

The sound resonated through every cold bone in Marco’s body, rattled his legs and arms and plucked his ribs. At the security console Ballard convulsed with a final yowl of pain and crashed to the floor, utterly, unmistakably dead, but Marco was beyond worrying about Roger now, because on the security monitor there was a
serious fucking problem
, a nightmare projecting straight from his subconscious to the black and white screen, really happening.

The corpses had the security door open and were raging through the checkpoint by the hundreds. An endless river of dead, blood-crazed convicts, flooding the infirmary.

Even now, he heard their wails reverberating up the hall.

They were coming for him.

Incredulous, he met eyes once more with Wu.

The sergeant–not a sergeant, not Army Intelligence, but a no-good son-of-a-bitch
spy
–met him with a peeved expression. ‘Foolish,’ he muttered, and Marco sensed that perhaps Wu was referring to himself. Sweat dripped from the man’s matted black hair.

‘Wu,’ Marco urged. The cries of the dead grew louder. ‘We’ve gotta get out.’

Wu laughed once–a strange sound, both amused and anguished. ‘Oh, I will, Doctor.’ He aimed the pistol again at Marco. His finger twitched on the trigger.

‘You won’t,’ he said.

On Marco’s chest the red laser dot seemed to swell, big and round in his perception like a basketball, and his pectoral muscles clenched, anticipating the hot pain to come–the searing implosion of his sternum, the bullet shredding his heart to hamburger meat. Desperate, his eyes counted off steps on the floor, the distance to Wu. Eight feet, at least–too far for a clumsy leap, a last-ditch grab for the gun. He’d be shot dead halfway.

Wu dominated the centre of the lab, imposing, cut with muscle; the blood-soaked bandages around his bulging left bicep made him look stronger, somehow more invincible. The M9 was locked in his grip, certain, intent on killing. His mouth and eyes had been wiped empty, a hundred miles removed from the sympathy he’d exhibited in the chapel in Hemet.

We were almost… friends then,
Marco floundered.

But now there was nothing, nothing between them except a mechanical stare. The betrayal should have angered Marco–enraged him, made him insane with the desire to bash Wu’s skull, pound that back-stabbing brain to jelly. And yet at the same time, it was all so…
logical
, he knew. Impersonal, inoffensive. Just Wu doing what he’d been trained to do.

I’m dead,
Marco thought. The idea floated to him, oddly calm, almost acceptable–as if death were a choice he could never make for himself, but maybe, just maybe after so much misery, he was glad somebody was making it for him…

Bullshit
, he scolded himself. His head cleared. Christ, he’d almost given up just now, but
fuck that, fuck you Wu, I thought we were a team… and fuck Osbourne and fuck you God…

‘Do not go gentle into that good night’ and all that shit, you can kill me but I don’t have to accept this, I don’t have to pretend it’s all right
…

… and
there
was the anger he’d been needing so badly, belated but welcome…

Fuck Danielle, too, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Delle but fuck you, too, I needed you
…

…
setting him on fire, tears like burning gasoline on his cheeks and chin.

‘You warned me, Wu,’ he said, his mouth dry. A bitter smile locked itself to his lips. ‘You’re nothing but a killer, right? Now go ahead and
prove it.
’

Wu wavered. Barely, only for an instant, marked by the quickest tremor at the corner of his mouth and a sad flicker in his eyes. He blinked–his finger eased on the trigger, the barrel swayed–and then he blinked again, and his eyes were cold once more like emeralds.

‘
Zhongguo
,’ he half-whispered, like a ghost. ‘For China.’

The gun steadied, and Marco braced for the explosion, still in disbelief; his eyes locked on Wu with intense, penetrating finality–as if with one last glance he might see
inside
the man, decipher him, know the
real
Wu before the pistol flashed and all light went black…

Wu’s finger held; the moment stretched, agonising and breathless.

And then the gun lowered. The red dot touched the floor.

Wu shook his head, slow and deliberate.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I will not.’

Eight feet away, Marco waited in stunned silence. He held to his spot, anchored–afraid to move, to breathe, to speak a word.

It’s a trick. A trick
–
a fucking mean bullshit trick.

Wu turned his face, avoiding Marco. ‘I have what I need, Doctor. Beijing is wrong. Your death adds nothing.’ His voice
sounded strained. ‘The vaccine is mine. But you can go. Please.’

From the main corridor echoed a freakish wail, corpses herding past the check-in desk. Hesitantly Marco risked a word. ‘Go…?’

‘Home,’ Wu said. He lifted his head and nodded, his chin resolute. His gaze joined with Marco’s; his eyes had softened, placid now like green stained glass, like the chapel windows in Hemet, and in that instant Marco believed him. Wu stood straight.

‘China owes—
I
owe you this,’ he confirmed and nodded again, agreeing with himself, unaware that a stiff-limbed shadow had risen from the floor behind him, arms reaching…

Marco’s eyes widened in horror.

‘
Wu!
’ he cried out…

… just as Roger Ballard’s resurrected corpse sprang at Wu’s back, its face crazed and splotched white; its teeth crunched on Wu’s neck and thrashed wildly, and Marco watched, helpless, as the sternomastoid muscle tore free amidst a geyser of blood…

… and sound exploded everywhere at once, deafening, as Wu let loose a needling scream and fired the M9 wildly; the wayward bullet blasted a glass phial to shards on the rack behind Marco as the lab rocked with the gunshot and the excruciating ear-ringing aftershock. Marco heard himself yelling, too, shocked by his own senses, shocked to still be alive…

… seeing Wu topple backwards, Ballard’s blood-soaked corpse riding him down to the floor, gnashing and growling. The vaccine phial clattered from Wu’s left hand and rolled spinning below the operating table. The sergeant bellowed in pain, his arm pinned under him uselessly as the corpse bit again, carved a glistening, mouth-sized crater just under his chin.

‘
Goddamn it!
’ Wu roared, thrashing his arm free.

And then came the second thunder-blast as Wu jammed the M9 up under Ballard’s crooked lip and pulled the trigger. Ballard’s head erupted like fireworks, a crimson starburst of blood and brain. Fragments of stale-coloured teeth spun across the tiles towards Marco. Instinctively he jerked his feet away, knees to chest, sickened.

Ballard’s body dumped atop Wu, their blood merging into a thick batter.

Roger Ballard had been returned.

‘
Goddamn it!
’ Wu screamed again. Red spittle sparked from his mouth. He shoved Ballard off and struggled to a sitting position, clutching his torn neck, but the wound was too large; the blood emptied fast, streaming through his fingers, dribbling down his forearm to his elbow. He bit hard on his lip, his chest heaving.

Marco scrambled up and backed away, speechless as he bumped once more against the operating table and edged around it. His mind fumbled.

Roger resurrected.

The vaccine didn’t work–or maybe… maybe Roger…

And then he understood. The vaccine
did
work, but it wasn’t a cure; even Roger had said so. The vaccine would protect those who hadn’t yet been infected. But Roger had taken it too late, too long after he’d been bitten, long after the disease had converted his flesh; the Resurrection had been
inside
him, in his blood this entire goddamn time–dormant, waiting patiently, unable to overwhelm the living tissue as long as he’d been alive.

But once he was dead, it had grabbed control. Taken what it wanted…

The glass phials clinked under Marco’s spine as he backed against the wall. He met eyes with Wu across the lab. The sergeant’s legs spasmed–wet sloshing sounds in the puddled
blood. On both hands his fingers had contorted into wretched claws, the muscles seizing. The M9 lay uselessly where he’d dropped it by his right knee. His cheeks were an ashen white, the colour of driftwood, and he looked small now, puppet-like, propped against the counter with his arms limp at his sides. Already his bite wounds had coloured a diseased-looking purple, the skin brittle like charred paper around the edges. He smiled knowingly at Marco.