by Alex Scarrow
I wish to be in . . . and so it was.
I wish to be out . . . and so it was.
He experienced the peculiar transition of his ‘consciousness’ as being carried from one place to another, piggy-back style, by some friendly servant who never grumbled at the task.
He was dimly aware that in the way time was measured in the outside world, it was just last night that Grace had overpowered him and thrust that horrific little invader into his eye. But within, in this womblike existence, it felt like days, weeks even. Apart from those first few agonizing moments, the memories of which were quickly fading. Since then, it hadn’t been a frightening experience. Bewildering, perhaps, at first. But not frightening.
For the first few ‘weeks’ they had kept him inside. In the dark, as if in a dungeon. But not alone. They had been there with him, answering his questions, assuring him they meant no harm. Grace had come to visit him, to let him know this wasn’t forever.
Then the light had been switched on and he’d found himself in his bedsit back in Morecombe. There was his desk, his MacBook and his HP laptop, the grimy sash window with its view across grass-tufted dunes, the gravel and silt beach, the cold grey sea and the decrepit-looking Morecombe pier in the distance. And Grace, sitting cross-legged on his unmade bed. She’d told him she’d read all his memories like a book and made this ‘scene’ so that when she finally turned the light on, he’d feel a little less freaked out by everything.
Fish had told her. He got it immediately. He understood what this was. ‘It’s like the internet. Like virtual reality.’
‘I guess so. I never thought about it that way.’
‘A biochemical version,’ he’d added, wandering over to his desk, running his fingers across the clacking keys of his keyboard. ‘More real than anything digital.’
‘Yes. Give it a little more time, Fish, and you’ll soon learn how to move beyond your own memories.’
She’d told him how his trillion-cell body was like a little world; even just his billion-cell mind was a continent he could explore. But, beyond that, the bodies and minds of countless others were an infinite universe. To step out of this into the ‘real’ world was to step into a much smaller, more limited, place of possibilities.
Fish had adapted quickly, accepted and embraced his new reality.
It’s like virtual reality but way . . . way . . . way . . . better.
By the time the first light of dawn had risen and everyone was stirring on the floor of the camping shop, Fish had been ready, like Grace, to travel between inner-space and outer-space. Only it was outside that now felt insubstantial and virtual.
He was walking beside Grace. A dozen steps ahead of them were two people for whom he felt more affection than he had for anyone in his old life.
I was such a loner. So lonely back then.
He watched Leon and Freya walking at Freya’s pace, her arm linked through his, their heads close together as they talked in hushed tones, and he wondered why the hell they insisted on remaining just friends. They seemed to be like boyfriend and girlfriend in all ways but one.
Not that he had a great deal of experience in that department.
‘I hope you forgive me now,’ said Grace.
His thoughts evaporated. ‘I do.’ He smiled at her. ‘You were right. It’s incredible.’
‘Fish . . . I wanted you to come with me because there’s something important we need to do.’
‘What?’
‘I need to talk with whoever’s in charge of the human remainders.’
‘Talk?’
‘They don’t know what you and I know. They’ve just seen the horrible things, the early stages when the virus acted more simply, more brutally. They’re scared. Like we were once.’
‘We’re not just scouting ahead, then?’
‘No.’ Grace shook her head firmly. ‘We’re not going back.’
Fish shook his head. ‘Yeah, but you said talk? If they test you, or me . . . I mean . . . the second they figure out we’re virals, they’ll kill us.’
‘If I can explain to them that the virus can talk, can reason, can—’
‘They’ll burn you the second they find you out.’
‘We have to try,’ she replied calmly.
Up ahead Freya and Leon had stopped suddenly. Both of them frozen still. Grace and Fish drew up beside them.
‘’Sup?’ said Fish.
Leon was grimacing, listening for something.
‘Leon?’ whispered Grace.
‘Shhhh!’ Leon held out a finger. ‘You hear it?’
She couldn’t hear anything. Then all of a sudden a faint whispering swish-swish-swish that was gradually getting louder. The sound was changing as it increased in volume, changing from the swish of a horse’s tail, to a thud . . .
Then, suddenly, it burst from soft to loud, became deafening: a thwup-thwup-thwup from above. They all looked up at the cloudy sky to see a helicopter swooping low over the rooftops across their road and beyond those on the far side.
Leon instinctively shoved his arms up into the air and waved them desperately.
‘Down here! We’re down here!’ he bellowed, as if they could hear him.
The helicopter veered off its tangent and slowly began to swing back around towards them.
‘They’ve seen us!’ shouted Leon. ‘They’ve SEEN US!’
Freya let go of his arm and balled her hand into a fist and punched the air. ‘Frikkin yes!’
Grace looked pointedly at Fish. We have to act as though we’re not infected for now.
She jumped up and down excitedly and waved her hands like her brother. Fish understood and followed her lead.
The helicopter had circled back and was now hovering above them, the downdraft from its rotors pounding them hard and stirring all the dead leaves and loose detritus up into an excited cyclone.
But it remained where it was. Not descending, just hovering. Marking the spot.
Then finally over the roar of the helicopter’s engine and rotors they heard something else. They turned to see an army truck pull up thirty metres away and a dozen soldiers in white biohazard suits spill out of the back, guns raised, shouldered and aimed squarely at them. The helicopter quickly moved off, the deafening noise beginning to lessen as it tilted and sped away across the rooftops.
A voice came from behind the Perspex visor of the nearest soldier, but it was lost in the noise of the receding helicopter. From the gestures he was making, it was clear that he wanted them to put their hands on their heads and kneel down.
Freya, completely unintimidated by the dozen gun barrels aimed her way, whooped with unrestrained joy. ‘Yes! We’re saved!’
The gestures again, more exaggerated, more insistent.
She held her free hand out in a gesture of submission, then braced herself against her walking stick as she struggled down into an uncomfortable kneel. The others followed her lead.
‘So –’ she huffed from the effort – ‘what the hell took you guys so long?’
CHAPTER 49
Naga had everyone ready to move for when Leon and the others got back. They all had their backpack or shoulder bag on or beside them on the ground, each one loaded with a couple of litres of water and several tins of food.
There was still a fair amount of their stuff sitting in the backs of the trucks. It felt foolishly reckless just leaving it all behind, but if help was waiting just a few miles away, then it didn’t seem to matter any more.
And Leon was almost certainly coming back with good news. She could have sworn she’d heard the chopping sound of a distant helicopter coming from somewhere over the city.
The mood among them had lifted, a stark contrast to the sombre and sullen collective that had set off from the smouldering ruins of the castle. There were smiles and laughter for the first time in what seemed like ages. Danielle notably amongst them, for once laughing instead of griping about something or other. She watched some of the former knights – Moss, Crouchman, Heste
r – sitting on their helmets and playing cards.
Several others were making the most of this downtime to stretch out and rest their aching legs and sore feet. Patrick had taken his trainers and socks off, and Osman was busy checking his old feet for infection, replacing padded blister plasters where needed.
Royce was sitting on the tailgate of one of the trucks rolling a cigarette.
Denise had just finished brushing the tangles out of Rachel’s long frizzy hair and was starting to plait it. Naga smiled at that; for the first time in a long time, someone was actually concerned with their appearance.
Naga’s gaze finally settled on their new friends, Jerry and his brood of waifs and strays. They were clustered together away from everyone else, beyond the low centre barrier of the road, where there was a little more open tarmac to move around. It looked as if he were organizing a game for them to play while they waited for Leon’s return. They were gathered tightly around him, listening intently as he talked.
She was so impressed by Jerry. He was so good with them.
He was what? Sixteen? In the good old days . . . before . . . her only experience of boys that age had been surly-faced little thugs hidden beneath their hoods, only looking up from their iPhones to sneer an acknowledgement at the rest of the world.
She wondered if Jerry would have been like that, but here and now, having been handed such a burden of responsibility, he’d become someone else altogether: a pied piper for orphaned children. Peter Pan with his Lost Boys and Girls.
The children had largely kept to themselves since they’d hooked up several days ago. She didn’t blame them. Her group of mostly adults were complete strangers to them.
She saw Jerry spread his arms out wide and the children surged in towards him. Their painfully thin arms wrapped around him, and his around them.
Group hug? Oh God, that’s adorable. Naga smiled as she watched them snuggling in tightly, all squirming to get closer, like teenyboppers around a pop star, but without the screaming or cheering. It was a perfectly silent group hug.
Oddly silent.
She cocked her head at the strangeness of it: no giggles or ‘awww’s or even that self-conscious ‘mmm’ sound that people feel the need to make alongside a hug. It was decidedly peculiar.
The pressing of bodies together looked more intense now, more purposeful than a display of affection. It was starting to look more like a rugby scrum. She saw someone’s pink rucksack drop to the ground amid the forest of scrawny legs. Among the legs she could see the silhouette of one of the youngest ones, a toddler of two or three, being carelessly buffeted and knocked by knobbly knees.
They need to mind the littlies.
‘Hey kids!’ she called out.
None of them looked her way.
‘Jerry!’ she called again. ‘You’ve got little ones in the middle getting squished in there!’
Jerry didn’t respond either.
She wondered what the hell they were playing at. Maybe it wasn’t a group hug after all, but some stupid game. She made her way across to the central barrier and swung a leg over.
‘Jerry . . .’ she called again. ‘You need to watch out for the babies . . .’ She pointed at the road beneath their huddle. She caught a glimpse of pale mother-of-pearl shellac and hair-thin legs scuttling across the broken tarmac, around a tuft of weeds towards her.
A viral. One of those miniature ones they hadn’t seen in a long while. Then she saw another one, zigzagging quickly across the road. She saw more, one after another, a line of them, like an ant trail, leading back to the squirming mass of children, weaving around and through that copse of skinny legs, emerging from their shadows like freshly hatched spiders from a deep, dark forest.
She was about to yell at them to scatter when her eyes caught other details . . .
. . . an ear dangling from the side of a girl’s head, attached by a jelly-like string of flesh.
. . . a small dismembered chubby hand lying on the road, fingers still curling and flexing.
. . . a yellow T-shirt twitching from protuberances beneath, sprouting crimson stains.
Oh my God . . .
And in the middle of the dark forest of legs, she saw the silhouette of a baby sitting on his padded bottom, jawbone slowly swinging like a pendulum and descending into his lap from spittle-thin strings of mucus.
She tried to scream. Not bothering to try forming words, just a shrill bark of noise to warn everyone to run . . . but nothing more than a hoarse wheeze came out.
The mass of children collapsed inwards from the middle. Legs no longer functioning as viable supports for the mass of loosening, jellying tissue sagging inwards under its own weight. The silence was broken by the spatter of organs on to the tarmac and a growing moan coming from those children whose vocal chords were still intact: a deep-pitched mournful sound, like the pitiful lowing of cattle awaiting slaughter.
Naga noticed that the ‘ant trail’ of crabs scuttling towards her had quickly escalated into a thicker stream. And from the growing slush pile of organs on the ground, even more were emerging.
She felt the sharp sting of one of them sinking a serrated-edge spine into her ankle. Felt another sting as a second leaped for an ambitious hold further up her calf.
She screamed, finding her voice second time around.
‘RUN!’
Naga staggered backwards towards the central barrier, bumped into it, lost her balance and toppled over its corrugated-iron lip. She landed heavily on the far side, winded from the backwards tumble.
She turned her head to look back under the rusting barrier, ignoring the scratches and scrapes across her face from the gravel. She saw, from low down, from her right-next-to-the-ground perspective, what appeared to be a tidal wave of glinting, wire-thin limbs, sharp barbs and ragged surgical pincers racing towards her.
A second later they were upon her.
CHAPTER 50
‘Why won’t you guys say something?’ Freya looked from one masked face to the next. The soldiers were all wearing thick, white biohazard suits with hoods that appeared to have their dark semi-opaque eyeholes integrated into them. As seamless as possible. Airtight. All she could see of their faces was the occasional glint from their eyes.
‘Say something! You can’t just stare at us!’
Once again they were in another truck. This time they were sharing it with a dozen faceless armed figures. There were no patches or markings on the biohazard suits. No indication that they were army or not. No indication that they were even American.
Leon looked across the space at Grace. She gazed back at him calmly. He wasn’t sure if that was relief on her face or resignation. Beside her, Fish looked far less comfortable about things. One of his legs jiggled, heel tapping the floor.
He imagined Fish was thinking that these people might be Russians or something. That they were destined for some grisly concentration camp. Leon knew that’s how Fish’s mind worked.
‘Jesus, do you guys even speak English?’ shouted Freya.
Leon placed a hand on her arm to calm her. ‘It’s OK. We’re safe now whether they speak English or Russian or Martian.’
He leaned forward to the soldier sitting opposite him. It might have been the one who’d gestured for them to kneel and put their hands behind their heads, but since none of them wore any markings at all, he couldn’t tell.
‘There are others with us,’ Leon said loudly. ‘About a hundred and twenty.’ He nodded out of the back of the truck. ‘Back where we came from. Where the traffic blockage is.’
The head turned briefly to look the way he was pointing, then turned back to face him.
Leon tried a different tack. ‘There’ve been others like us, right?’ he persisted. ‘Others arriving on foot here? Recently?’
No response.
‘We have to go back for our friends. At least let them know what’s going on!’
Still nothing.
He sat back, exasperated. ‘I don’t think they unders
tand English,’ he said to Freya.
‘So not American, then,’ she added. ‘OK.’
‘Clearly.’ He settled back and looked out. Behind them a dirty and deserted city centre was beginning to show signs of life. They passed a patrol of troops at the roadside, all white biohazard suits and assault rifles. Several of them were dragging a large cylinder on wheels, and another was holding a hose and liberally spraying a blue-tinted liquid over everything, like a gardener watering his lawn.
Another truck rolled past them, heading back the way they’d come. Leon wondered if word had been passed on and it was on its way to get the others.
Their truck slowed right down to a crawl and vibrated as it ran over something. Leon saw a metal grid like a cattle grid had been laid out across the road. He saw chain fencing, more soldiers in biohazard suits, yellow ones this time, and then, as the truck swung round and came to a halt . . . people.
Civilians. Hundreds. Possibly even thousands . . . all milling around between rows of tents and Portakabins.
The soldiers in the truck spilled out of the back, army-issue boots smacking down hard on quayside concrete. One of them beckoned for Leon and the others to follow them.
Leon looked around as soon as he was out and down. They were standing in the middle of a vast stretch of Southampton quays. Freight-loading cranes towered over the expanse like giants, but casting a looming shadow over them and across the rows of tents, cabins and the perimeter mesh fencing was an enormous aircraft carrier.
Leon scanned the vast blue, grey and white stripes of paint along its hull for an indication of whether it was American or not. He saw an ‘03’ painted in multistorey white block lettering, and craning his neck stiffly to look beyond the lip of the launch deck he saw the very top of the control tower, topped with aerials and radar dishes and a flag fluttering in the offshore breeze.
Red with yellow stars.
‘It’s Chinese,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ replied Freya, ‘well, that explains the lack of stimulating conversation.’
Grace and Fish joined them, looking around at their surroundings.
