Convulsive Box Set

by Marcus Martin

  Lucy wrapped her hands around her head and groaned. “Why didn’t you …? Argh!”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her ears started to pick out the wind rustling in the trees, and some distant birds calling to one another. She rubbed her itching eyes several times then reopened them, blinking the blurry vision back into focus.

  “Hey – sorry I got frustrated. It’s OK, we all have accidents,” she said, kneeling down again and beckoning the boy back over.

  “Between you and me, I’m feeling a little scared by what’s going on. I’m actually feeling kinda alone because I lost my best friend in the whole world, so I could really use a friend right now. So look, here’s the deal, I’m gonna make you a promise.”

  She held out her pinkie finger.

  “I promise that I’m gonna keep you safe, and look out for you, for both of us. Will you help look out for me too, and we can be a team?”

  She kept her pinkie finger outstretched, hoping above everything that it would work. Slowly, cautiously, the little boy raised his hand and stuck out his pinkie finger, wrapping it around hers. For the first time he looked into her eyes, albeit not for long; his eyes darted back to the floor again, but it was progress all the same.

  With that they set off again, and after a mile or so the boy took her hand. Together, they walked in silence.

  ***

  They walked for several hours more, during which time they had no choice but to stop and rest intermittently. The gas-station snacks were a mixed blessing, giving them sugar highs but compounding their dehydration, and causing inevitable energy crashes.

  A small town eventually emerged along the road ahead, perhaps only a mile away now. This time, a lookout post made of scaffold stood by the first few houses, marking the town boundary.

  At that moment the boy’s hand slipped from Lucy’s. He collapsed onto the hard road.

  “Hey!” cried Lucy, panicking, immediately falling to her knees to try to shake the boy awake. “Hey, kid, come on now, we’re nearly there, wake up!”

  His skin was ash-white and clammy, and he was totally unresponsive.

  Lucy leapt to her feet and faced the watchtower, jumping, waving, and shouting desperately for help. One of the sentries spotted her and pointed, beckoning over a colleague who seemed to reach for a radio.

  Lucy turned her attention back to the nameless boy, shaking and calling to him to no avail. Then it dawned on her: the backpack. She wrestled it off his unconscious body and tore the zip open, revealing a black purse-shaped box. She prized it apart, staring down at the syringe and other unfamiliar devices that greeted her eyes. There was a note inside the pouch too:

  Damian Brooks. Type 1 diabetic. Emergency contact: Evelyn Brooks, 716 866 5269

  Lucy fumbled around the rest of the bag for clues as to what the hell to do. She’d never treated a diabetic before, but she’d heard of diabetic comas and this didn’t look good.

  The rumble of a car approaching interrupted Lucy’s frantic rummaging.

  “Hey! You need help?” yelled the driver, leaning out of the window.

  Lucy scooped the kid up in her arms and rushed towards the vehicle. The front passenger leapt out to assist. Together, they lowered the unconscious boy into the backseat.

  “What’s wrong with your son?” asked the driver, as Lucy hastily retrieved the boy’s items from the road and climbed into the car.

  “He’s diabetic and he’s not my son,” replied Lucy, breathlessly. “I have no idea how to treat him.”

  The car spun around and headed back towards the town at speed.

  “Tell Paul,” instructed the driver.

  His assistant reached for the radio. “Base, this is Tower Two Dispatch. Come in, over,” he chimed.

  “Go ahead Dispatch Two.”

  “We just picked up two strangers outside the tower. There’s a diabetic child in urgent need of medical attention. We’re taking him to the town hall now. Can you get Paul to meet us there ASAP? The kid’s in a bad way, over.”

  “Roger that, Dispatch Two. In a bit, over.”

  The radio crackled out for the last time and they crossed the threshold into the town, speeding past the manned sentry tower. Lucy’s eyes darted between the pale child and the bizarre glimpses of the town she was getting as they drove.

  Stacks of household mirrors had been placed in a circle by the roadside, all facing inwards towards a large, central, plastic barrel. Further along people were digging pits by the side of the road, some of which were lined with plastic. They passed a truck hauling fresh lumber, and Lucy glimpsed a second watchtower a little way off. The place reminded her of her own modest home town of Clinton. Only, here was smaller, with even fewer amenities.

  The car came to an abrupt halt and the driver and assistant leapt out, immediately reaching into the back and helping lift the child from Lucy. They rushed into the stone building ahead. Lucy snatched the backpack and hastened after them.

  “Paul!” yelled the driver, who was strong enough to carry the child himself.

  An unassuming man met them inside.

  “Lay him down on the table, quickly,” replied the man – presumably Paul. “Does he have a kit?”

  “The woman’s got it,” said the assistant, pointing to Lucy, who thrust the black box forwards.

  Paul snatched it from her. “I’m gonna talk you through what I’m doing here, guys, so pay attention – you may have to do this sometime, you never know. ABC – who can remember what that stands for?”

  “Airway, breathing, circulation,” replied the driver.

  “Good. So his airway is clear and he’s breathing,” said Paul, examining the boy. “Matty, you wanna check his circulation?”

  Matty, the driver’s assistant, put his fingers to the boy’s neck.

  “He’s got a pulse,” he confirmed.

  “Good,” said Paul, double-checking the diagnosis. “Now we need to take a blood glucose reading – that’ll tell us if he needs sugar or insulin.”

  Paul pulled out two objects from the kit: a small pebble-sized thing with an LED screen into which he fed a tiny strip of paper, and something that looked like a really thick pen.

  “Crap, he’s out of needles,” fretted Paul, clicking the top of the pen thing. “Rich, gimme your knife, quickly.”

  Rich – the strong driver – obliged, handing over a penknife. Lucy shifted, uncertainly, as Paul flicked open a blade and held the tip up to the unconscious child’s finger.

  “Woah, what are you doing? Jesus, Paul, no blood! That’s the rule!” cried Matty.

  “We need a drop of blood for the reader,” asserted Paul. “One drop, that’s all, and we can stem it immediately.”

  “Fuuuuck!” cried Matty, spinning on the spot, running his hands through his hair. “This is why we don’t take strangers in!”

  Paul gently pushed the blade into the boy’s fingertip, where a thick red teardrop immediately formed at the surface. He held the paper-LED device up to the blood.

  “Ah shit, it’s not working,” cursed Paul. “Do you know how to work this thing? You there, hey, hello?”

  Lucy came out of her trance and realized Paul was addressing her.

  “Miss? How do you work this thing? I’ve not seen this model before and I really don’t wanna guess how to treat your boy,” he pressed, holding out the pebble-shaped device for Lucy to examine.

  As she raised her arm to receive it, the world went black.

  THREE

  Into the Crypt

  _________________________________________________

  “You passed out.”

  Lucy blinked several times, her eyes adjusting to the candlelight. The room around her was unfamiliar, as was the woman leaning over her.

  “You passed out, right after –” The woman fell silent and looked away.

  Lucy came to her senses with a jolt – the boy!

  “Where is he? Where’s the boy?” demanded Lucy.

  “I’m so sorry. He didn’t
make it,” replied the woman.

  Lucy slumped back into the bed, her head spinning. She’d saved the boy’s life then allowed him to die. If only she’d checked his backpack! If only he’d have told her something – anything!

  “Drink this,” insisted the woman, lifting Lucy’s head up a little and putting a straw to her lips.

  Lucy took a few sips before abandoning the carton, overcome by nausea and guilt.

  “You’re dehydrated, and you need to rest,” advised the woman. “I’ll leave the drink here. Sleep now.”

  ***

  Lucy awoke and sat up; the woman was nowhere to be seen. Rubbing her eyes, she took in her candlelit surroundings properly.

  The ceiling was low and made of stone. Dozens of camp beds and mattresses filled the space. Lucy stifled a gasp as she realized there were other people asleep in the room with her. She immediately began looking around for an exit.

  The single doorway across the room led to a set of steps that disappeared from view. At the foot of her bed, folded, was a fresh set of clothes. Next to that was her backpack, and the Asian woman’s boots she’d scavenged from the train. The rest of the sports drink had disappeared. Lucy gasped as she leaned forwards to pick up the clothes, remembering her broken ribs. The bed creaked loudly. Someone across the room rustled, turning over to lie on their other side.

  She swiveled out from under the quilt as quietly as she could and realized she was still wearing Toby’s rolled-up cargo trousers. Lucy pulled the stolen boots on and steadied herself as she stood. Picking up the pile of fresh clothes, she edged towards the exit, backpack swung over her shoulder.

  At the top of the short stone staircase was a heavy-looking wooden door. It was unlocked, and as Lucy pushed it open she emerged onto the floor of the town hall.

  “Um, excuse me,” she said, approaching a kindly-looking woman.

  The woman was extremely large, and wore a baggy unbuttoned cloth shirt over a stained white T-shirt. Her red hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she was carrying a pile of folded towels.

  “You’re the new one,” noted the woman, eyeing Lucy up suspiciously.

  “Uh, yeah, I guess that’s me.”

  “Sorry ’bout your boy,” replied the woman, setting off again.

  “He wasn’t my … Thanks,” replied Lucy, quick-stepping to catch up. “Is there somewhere I could get changed?”

  They reached another mottled door across the hall, which was covered in flaking, faded cream paint. Continuing through, they stepped into a gloomy corridor, with dark wooden-paneled walls and an ageing red carpet.

  “Bathroom’s down that way. Do not use the toilet – unless you wanna be pulling it back out again,” said the woman, who immediately departed the way she’d come.

  “Oh, thanks,” said Lucy. “I didn’t catch your –” The flaking cream door swung closed.

  Lucy set off down the corridor. Old oil paintings depicted scenes from the civil war, alongside portraits of aged white men she didn’t recognize.

  If the cold stone floor of the bathroom wasn’t enough of an incentive for her to hurry, the smell certainly was. She changed as quickly as her delicate ribs would allow, and returned to the main hall, her dirty clothes shoved inside her backpack.

  The hall was large, with a high ceiling and an elevated balcony level which looked down on the central floor.

  “And I thought we’d had it bad,” came a familiar voice from the far side of the hall.

  Lucy jolted, realizing she was being addressed.

  “I’m Paul, the council leader,” the man continued, walking towards her. “And you must be Lucy?”

  She recognized him – he was the man who’d tried to save the boy. Lucy’s eyes widened as she saw that tucked under his arm was her notebook.

  “How did you get that?” she cried, swiveling her backpack off and immediately rifling through it.

  “We searched your stuff after you passed out. Seemed only prudent. And I’m glad we did – I was gonna put you to work in the fields with Sammy, but it looks like we’ve got a few things to discuss. It’s not in there,” he added, as she continued to rummage. “Your gun, I mean. Just a precaution. When we know we can trust you, you’ll get it back – we’re not savages.”

  Lucy stared at him in amazement.

  “I want you to tell me everything you know about those creatures. Then I want you to brief the council on it,” said Paul, solemnly, returning the notebook to her.

  “I …”

  “Paul!” came a cry from across the hall.

  “What is it?” he said, turning round.

  A woman rushed over to them and held out a radio. “It’s Watchtower Two – they’ve got new arrivals. They say they need you urgently.”

  “Again?” Paul took the receiver from her hand. “Go ahead Tower Two, this is Paul.”

  The radio crackled back into life as the response came through. “You’d better get down here, boss, we’ve got two new arrivals. They’re from County.”

  Lucy thought she recognized the voice. The name Matty came to mind – had he rescued her and the boy?

  “They’re armed, boss, and they’re demanding to see you,” the familiar voice crackled.

  “Understood, on my way,” replied Paul. “Come with me,” he instructed Lucy.

  “Me? I … OK. Um, by ‘County’, did he mean …?” she stammered, following him out of the hall.

  “The prison? I’m guessing so,” he replied, heading towards a nearby car. “And by the sounds of it, they aren’t exactly the guards.”

  He rocked into the driver’s seat.

  “Get in already,” said Paul, buckling up his seat belt. “You can start briefing me on the way.”

  Lucy obeyed.

  “So you were on the evac train?” he asked, starting the engine and pulling out.

  “Yes. I –”

  “Which makes you some sorta expert,” he interrupted. “We need that. We’ve done what we can with guesswork – you probably figured that out with the whole vault-sleeping thing. We are here to defend ourselves, Lucy, and we are struggling. But with your help …”

  He peered through the grimy windscreen as he took them round a corner.

  “The last leader died a week or so ago,” he continued. “She lasted all of two days. I was the new deputy, so, well, you can see how that worked out. I’m a high-school teacher by trade though – history. I’m not a scientist like you. But I dare say I’ve more in common with you than most of the other folk left round here.”

  Lucy gave a polite smile and looked down, twiddling the straps of her backpack, which sat nestled between her legs.

  “We had a rough night,” Paul went on. “One of the other watchtowers was attacked and we lost two men. I’m in half a mind to scrap the whole watch roster entirely and just keep everyone in the vault.”

  “They haven’t found you in there?” said Lucy, mulling over the composition of the stone chamber.

  “Would we be having this conversation if they had?” said Paul, with a harsh laugh. “It seems to keep us safe.”

  “If the vault keeps you safe, why are you bothering with watchtowers?”

  Paul raised an eyebrow. “Are you for real? When desperate people know what you have, they’ll try and take it from you. I read your diary – I’d have thought you’d learned that lesson by now.”

  Lucy’s mind flashed back to Dan showing her their broken apartment door, and their stolen rations. She grabbed both of her thighs and gripped, hard, as the aching loss of Dan soared to the front of her mind.

  “You OK?” said Paul, looking at her warily, like she was about to throw up in his taxi.

  “Fine,” she replied, exhaling slowly and counting to three under her breath. “So your watchtowers are to defend you against other people?”

  “Bingo,” said Paul, slapping the wheel. “The boys up there have got night-vision goggles.”

  “So they’ve seen the … creatures?”

  “A couple have. It
depends how many are hunting. If it’s just one, the tower can usually handle it. If it’s a whole pack, then we lose every time.”

  “The bodies – from last night. Were they killed by beasts or humans?”

  Paul glanced at her. “Beasts. Why?”

  “You need to burn their bodies.”

  “Bit late for that. We’ve already buried them.”

  Lucy felt a pang in her stomach. “Then you need to dig them up.”

  “Are you kiddin’ me? Why in god’s name would I do that? We knew those people. Some of their family are still alive. A stunt like that’s just gonna bring them pain.”

  “Listen to me,” said Lucy, pivoting in her seat to face Paul properly. “How long have you left a body before burying it – one that was killed by a beast?”

  “We bury them pretty quick. All within a day.”

  “How about when the pathogen was airborne? I’m seeing a lot more houses here than people, so I’m guessing you guys suffered what we went through in San Fran?”

  “You mean the virus?” replied Paul.

  Lucy opened then closed her mouth, deciding not to correct him.

  “Back then folk were dying too quick for us to bury them all the same day,” he continued.

  “So you’ve seen them rot? You’ve seen them turn to water?”

  Paul eyed her up suspiciously.

  “The airborne pathogen – virus, let’s call it – was part of the same thing as the creatures now attacking us,” explained Lucy. “They’re linked. And the bodies decay the same way – only, much quicker if they’ve been killed by a beast.”

  “What’s your point?” said Paul, taking another corner.

  “My point is, the bodies turn to water. ‘Gen Water’ is what it’s being called. There was a hypothesis discussed on the train, that the water is part of the creatures’ metabolism. It’s their food.”

  “So we should burn the bodies?” said Paul, bemused.

  “Those things will be coming back to feed. I’m sure of it. You need to destroy their food source before that. Dig the bodies up and burn them. Though it might be too late now.”