by Alex Scarrow
‘A bit.’ He shook his head. ‘I think she’s in shock, or something.’ He turned to her. ‘My God, Freya . . . Her burns . . .’ His voice failed him again, but this time he didn’t feel the need to put a brave face on.
‘What happened to her? How did she get here?’
Leon shook his head. ‘I didn’t get a chance to . . .’
Freya hugged him firmly and shushed softly. Questions like that could wait for later.
If Grace could just hang in there.
CHAPTER 22
Eighteen Months Ago
‘You got a minute for an old buddy?’
Douglas Trent looked up from his desk at Tom and smiled. ‘For you, ol’ buddy, I got two.’
Tom tentatively pulled out a dark wooden chair from beneath the teak desk. ‘May I?’
Trent wafted his hand with a look of incredulity. ‘Jesus H. Christ, Friedmann . . . just sit!’
Tom could see his friend was adrift in a sea of paperwork. The desk was covered from one end to the other with status reports, resource requests and terse diplomatic communiques from their wary hosts, the Cuban government.
‘I got paperwork coming out of my ass,’ grumbled Trent. He stretched back in his leather chair, cracked his knuckles and looked at Tom. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You asked me to go away and put some figures together. Remember?’
Trent’s eyes closed wearily. A not-this-again expression on his face. ‘So I did. And I’m guessing you have?’
Tom nodded. ‘We have the ships, we have the navy personnel, and we have enough fuel from those Mexican Gulf refineries to do this.’
‘Go on a wild-goose chase?’
‘They’re out there, Dougie. Survivors. Lots of them.’
‘And you know this because . . . ?’
‘Because of statistical probability. When the plague –’ he decided to use the name Trent used for it – ‘the African plague hit us, it was so goddamn quick that the data we have from the week before is still relevant.’
Trent spread his hands, waiting for Tom to elaborate.
‘Just under a fifth of our population, so, about sixty million Americans, were on analgesics, statins and antidepressants when it hit us. Those people, as we now know, would have been immune.’
‘So that was six months ago, Tom. How many do you think are left now? How many do you think have survived the winter without any goddamn power? How many have survived without access to clean drinking water?’ Dougie’s thick sandy eyebrows bunched up above piercing blue-grey eyes. ‘How many survived being attacked by that frikkin freakshow?’
They had all seen the last few broadcasts from the studio of a religious cult in Utah. The enclave had been large, well organized and well provisioned. It had been eagerly preparing for the end of the world for years, decades even, so they had their own generators, stockpiles of fuel and guns. They were self-sufficient, ready and waiting for the Rapture.
Over a period of several months, the cult leader had made about half a dozen rambling broadcasts to the world, and they’d watched him slide. At first jubilant and confident that their time was at hand, that the strange insect-like creatures they were easily holding at bay were the devil’s spawn coming to overwhelm them. There’d been shots from CCTV outside the cult’s high walls of squirming masses of pale crabs. Footage from a smartphone of someone holding up, by one spindly leg, something that looked like the kind of crustacean you’d find at the bottom of the ocean.
As time passed, the leader appeared to be losing his grip on reality. In his final broadcast, it appeared he’d arrived at the conclusion that Jesus wasn’t coming to rescue them. There was nothing more after that.
They had satellite images and high-altitude photography from the reconnaissance planes they’d launched from the carrier, showing absurd heat signatures on the ground. Patterns that suggested a weird ‘pooling’ of biomass with threadlike tributaries linking one mass to another.
‘We know the virus is stopped by salt water,’ continued Tom. ‘We also know that the analgesics make us immune to infection. We know that these creatures can be burned, blown up, squashed. So, we know that it’s possible, Doug, that there are a lot of people in America, and elsewhere, who’ve figured these things out too and they’ve managed to find a way to hold out.’
‘We don’t know any of that, Tom. I mean, Christ, where are all the radio messages? Huh? Where are the SOSs? Where are the “Is anyone else out there?” broadcasts? Apart from New Zealand, there’s no chatter out there, amigo.’
‘Well, come on, it’s not that easy broadcasting an SOS. You need power, a transmitter. That means a survival group with the same means and resources as those poor bastards in Utah.’
Trent wrinkled his nose and drew his lips together. Tom knew that was his version of conceding a point. ‘Even if you’re right, Tom, and they’re out there, we’re not in a position where we can do much to help them.’
‘Yes we are. We can go get them and bring them back here.’
‘That’s all we need, more mouths to feed.’
‘It can be done. This country managed to live off its own resources for forty years . . . thanks to our foreign policy.’
Trent rolled his eyes.
‘I’m just saying . . . we can do it. And if you want to be president of more than a dozen navy ships and nuclear submarines and twenty thousand refugees, we need to think nation-building. Bringing survivors together.’
Tom watched his friend digest that thought. They were guests of the Cuban nation. At first their hosts had insisted they remain on the south-west tip of the land and make use of the hostile and barren abandoned acres of Guantanamo Bay, suspicious of these American refugees. But humanitarian compassion had won over and the Cubans were beginning to cautiously suggest that Trent’s people, with some adjustments, could be accommodated within their nation.
He knew exactly what Doug’s dilemma was.
He’s not ready to let America vanish. He’s not going to let them absorb us. He wants to absorb them.
‘A humanitarian effort, huh?’ uttered Trent.
‘And we get to decide who we rescue, Dougie. Only those healthy and fit enough. Those who can contribute.’
Doug raised an eyebrow. ‘Americans?’
Tom shrugged. ‘We can send some ships in both directions. Americans . . . Brits . . .’
‘Ah, shit’ He suddenly narrowed his eyes. ‘Jesus, Tom . . . don’t play me for an idiot. This is all about getting your kids.’
‘I’m not going to lie to you. I’m holding on to a . . . a thread of hope, here.’ He sat forward. ‘That’s all I’ve got. And, yeah. I hope, if we can get some ships over there, that they’re amongst the people who’ve survived. But, look . . . we need people. We need to rebuild. We leave a rescue effort too long, and God knows how few will be left.’
Trent stared impassively at him. He wasn’t even sure if the president was still listening to him.
‘And we need more information about this virus. It’s not just a virus. It’s something different. It’s making things for Chrissakes.’ Tom stretched back in his chair and flexed his shoulders, only half aware that he was doing what his ex-wife used to call roostering up.
‘Dougie, what if the outbreak wasn’t the end, but just the start? What if this virus is something more? Something smart – something that’s going to change, evolve? We need to get our crap together: we need people; we need smarts; we need resources.’
Trent nodded slowly as he waggled the pen still in his hand. Tom wasn’t sure which angle was getting traction; appealing to his vanity as a nation-builder, or appealing to his humanity. Doug had never had any children. He’d had trophy girlfriends, like his horses, trading up constantly from Ohio state pageant queens, to movie stars, to oil-money heiresses . . . but never a wife.
Certainly never a kid.
He put his pen down. ‘Tom . . . old amigo, you’re probably the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother. You, me, and the
other boys from section D. Right?’
‘No man left behind.’
‘Exactly. No man left behind.’ He nodded slowly. ‘All right . . . OK. Let’s get some heads together and see what the hell kind of rescue effort we can put out.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Sure. De nada.’ He winked. ‘You go get your kids, Tom.’
CHAPTER 23
Freya put her hands on her hips. ‘So what do you think of it all?’
Grace stood on the rooftop and cautiously peered over the battlements of the Norman keep. She gazed down at the moat and the grounds beyond, uneven and bumpy with the digging and filling, and the ‘mine-safe’ tracks making meandering lanes through the tall wild grass. Beyond that, the edge of the woods circled the grounds like another greater moat.
‘Pretty cool,’ she replied.
A fresh wind made the clothes on the laundry lines flutter and snap like medieval pennants and tossed Freya’s long hair into her eyes.
‘We’re safe in here,’ Grace added, and returned a smile.
‘Unless the virus figures out how to make catapults or heavy artillery –’ Freya laughed at her own joke – ‘I’d say we’re pretty good.’
Grace nodded as she continued observing, watching the people working just outside the castle walls and beyond the moat in the grounds.
Freya took the opportunity to surreptitiously study her. Grace looked like some comic book artist’s idea of a villain, like Harley Quin, a duality: on one side innocent beauty; on the other, twisted and scarred. She could imagine some sick joke name for her character – ‘Two Face Grace’ – beauty and beast rolled into one.
In profile, Grace looked no different than Freya remembered her, except her hair was boy-short. Her long dark hair would have been burned away in that fire, and now two years on, this was as far as it had managed to grow back. Or maybe at some point in the last two years she’d cut it short.
She looked a little taller, but only a fraction so. She was still very small and slight for her age. Watching her observe the workers below, this was Grace as she remembered her. But older now. Older . . . and withdrawn, scarred both inside and out.
Only Freya and Leon knew where those burns had come from. But, as yet, neither she nor Leon knew what else Grace must have endured since then. Both of them wanted to ask, and both had agreed to let her talk about it when she was ready.
‘You know, we thought you . . . were dead. Grace. Leon and me—’
‘I escaped,’ she answered. She turned towards Freya, revealing the damaged side of her face. ‘The outside door wasn’t locked. So I got out.’
‘And you ran?’
She nodded. ‘I don’t remember much after that. Not for a long while after.’
‘But I’m guessing someone found you, right?’ Freya couldn’t imagine she’d survived on her own.
‘Yes.’
Freya dipped her head coaxing a bit more of an explanation from her. ‘. . . And?’
‘And they looked after me. They made me better.’
‘So . . . these people . . . where are they now?’
‘She was called . . . Hannah.’
‘OK. So where’s this Hannah now?’
‘Oh, she died.’
‘And the others?’
Grace frowned slightly, one good brow knitting with one ruined one.
‘You said “they”?’
‘They died too. The virus crabs got them . . . all.’
Freya nodded. She sensed Grace was skating over things, giving just the bare bones of the last eighteen months. Freya studied her scars. They were deep. Horrible. What tabloids used to call ‘life changing’.
She must have nearly died. Someone must have worked hard to keep alive, to keep those open wounds from becoming infected as they’d gradually healed. Someone must have grown to know her, grown fond of her and, in turn, Grace of them.
Then they, too, had died.
You poor, poor thing. But her aching sadness for Grace had been tempered by a concern. A niggling concern. A question she’d been wanting to ask Leon since they’d left Emerald Parks, but she never had, because Grace was dead and Leon didn’t need to be asked. But since she’d arrived, the question had begun to resurface in Freya’s mind.
What exactly DID you see in that sauna cabin, Leon? Was it something? . . . Or nothing?
In the heat of that moment, in the rush of panic and adrenalin, had a shadow cast by Dave’s torch become something it wasn’t? A tress of knotted hair mistaken for some dangling viral appendage? Eighteen months ago Freya had been almost certain that Dave had murdered an innocent girl.
Almost certain.
But, looking at Grace right now, that final lingering doubt evaporated. She was real, no doubt about it. There was nothing she needed to ask Leon.
‘Hannah was a German person,’ said Grace.
‘Oh, just like our Dr Hahn?’
‘Yeah.’ Grace smiled. ‘I like Dr Hahn.’
‘She’s a very nice lady.’
‘Are the others here as nice as her?’
‘Hmmmm,’ Freya hummed musically. ‘They’re a mixture.’ She nodded over at the others doing laundry duty on the rooftop. ‘That’s Naga. She’s quite sarcastic, which I guess is why we get on. The girl beside her is Denise. She’s a good laugh.’
‘What about the men?’ Grace’s tone hardened with suspicion as she said the last word.
Freya accepted she had reason to be wary. ‘None of them are like, you know back at the other place. Leon’s quite good friends with a guy called Fish. You met Corkie?’
‘The one that saved me?’
‘Yeah. He’s an ex-army sergeant. Mouth like a potty, you may have noticed. The old guy in charge is called Major Everett.’
‘Is he nice?’
Nice. Freya wondered about that catch-all term. Perhaps she was using it to ask a more probing question. Are we safe? Are they bad men like Dave? Or good men like Ron?
‘He’s a good man. I think. Quite strict.’ Freya laughed. ‘And he sees himself as the Sheriff of Nottingham or a Ned Stark or something. You’ll see that tonight at dinnertime. That is, if Dr Hahn’s letting you out of the infirmary to join us?’
‘Dr Hahn says I’m well enough now.’
Grace had been Hahn’s sole patient for over a week, the doctor almost fulfilling a motherly role, feeding her, washing her, sitting with her every night after Leon and Freya had been summoned away to their beds by the ‘lights out in five’ warning blast of the horn.
They were in the main hall. A queue was already forming beside the fireplace. Tonight the room was filled with the smell of freshly baked bread as well as the smell of wood smoke, and the dogs were yapping incessantly for scraps. Freya was about to ask Dr Hahn whether she could have some extra painkillers for her hip when Everett joined them both.
‘The girl looks a lot better than when she first arrived,’ he said.
‘She is much stronger now,’ replied Dr Hahn.
‘Poor child. Do you know what happened to her? Has she told you?’
‘Only what Freya and Leon told us.’
Everett sucked his teeth. ‘Disgusting. Truly disgusting. You’d think with most of humanity gone there’d be a little more tolerance and compassion going round among those who were left.’
Everett turned and picked out Grace standing in the queue with a bowl in her hand. ‘By the way, Doctor, I presume you’ve done her bloods?’
‘Her blood did not react to my test.’
‘Of course. And no other health concerns?’
‘She has been on antibiotics, but, actually, I think those are not necessary. Her scarring is fully healed. It will always be there and will always be tender to touch. But, apart from borderline malnutrition, she is all right.’
‘I’m loath to put her on any duties yet. But I do feel it would be good for her to have some light chores to do. What do you think?’
Hahn nodded. ‘I agree.’
‘Good.’ Evere
tt nodded absently. ‘Good.’
‘So, Dr Hahn, anyway . . . ?’ Freya continued. She’d got as far as saying she wanted to ask Hahn something.
Everett looked disapprovingly down his hawk-like nose at her. ‘Young lady . . . manners?’
Freya pulled out a guilty shrug for him. ‘Excuse me interrupting you, sir . . . Dr Hahn? Permission to speak?’
‘That’s much better,’ said Everett warily. Although he suspected she was mocking him. ‘I’ll catch up with you later,’ he said, then excused himself.
‘What can I do for you, Freya?’ asked Hahn.
‘Can you up the strength of my meds?’ She patted her left hip. ‘Last few days it’s been aching quite a lot. I mean not, like, that bad, but more than it has in the past. I just wonder if with all the chores I have to do it’s, you know, aggravating my condition.’
‘I will make a note on my register to increase your daily allowance, Freya. Come and see me after dinner in the infirmary to remind me, just in case I forget.’
‘Thanks. Will do.’ Freya turned away and headed over to the queue, joining Grace with a bowl in her hand. ‘So you’re joining the general population at last.’
Grace looked back at her over her shoulder. Not quite getting her. ‘Huh?’
‘Down here, out of the infirmary.’
Grace smiled. ‘It was getting boring up there.’
‘Well, it seems like you’re going to be joining a work group.’
‘Do I get to choose?’
‘I don’t know. But I bet Everett sticks you in with me. That OK with you?’
Grace nodded.
CHAPTER 24
In the stillness of night, when the noises had settled down, the whispered conversations had come to an end, and the dormitories echoed with the regular rasping of deep and even breathing, was when Grace could most easily descend into her restless world.
She closed her eyes on the faint pall of light spilling in through the lead-lined windows from the floodlights outside and descended into herself. She had come to think of it as stepping from a room called ‘outside’ into another room called ‘inside’, a simple mental conceit that made the process of travelling from a macro universe down into a cellular one more comprehensible.
