Weep (Book 1): The Irish Epidemic

by Brady, Eoin

  “This is your plan.” Fin crept to the door and peered out both ways. The lobby was empty. “Hello?” In answer, the door into the car park snapped shut and Fin lept back. The front door was still barricaded and he had the only set of keys on the premises.

  Broken glass lay on the ground by the door to the car park. Rebecca opened it cautiously. Her whole demeanour changed and she started to laugh. “George! You bastard, I thought one of those things had gotten in.”

  The wall at the back of the car park was as tall as the hotel. With the gates and doors locked, it was the only way in. Beyond the wall, there was a line of old houses. A rope made from many different sources dangled above the tarmac. George, the bartender, clinging on for dear life, struggled only a quarter of the way up. He slipped on the moss and slime-slick, sheer wall, his face reddened from effort and Fin’s barking laughter.

  “You bastards, I thought I was dead.” The laughter was infectious. When his feet touched the ground, he used his sleeve to wipe tears from his cheeks.

  Fin could not imagine his friend would have easily pulled himself the whole way back up; he had a bit of weight on him and was only marginally fitter than he was.

  “I saw the bodies and I thought you were dead.” He shook his arms to bring feeling back into them before embracing Rebecca. “I’m so glad to see you both. Are there any more staff members ali… here?” He looked haggard since Fin last saw him.

  “Just us,” Rebecca said.

  George approached Fin to hug him, but Fin stepped back. “Are you infected?”

  “No.” George stopped. “What about you?”

  Chagrined by the awkwardness following his coldness, Fin held out his gloved hand. “No, but there were infected in here, I don’t want to pass it on.”

  George shook his hand warmly. “Not to worry lad, you’re right. Was just habit that made me go in for the hug. Sorry, Rebecca. Reckon all physical contact is a no-go for the next while. Never realised how much I touched my face over the course of a day, until I couldn’t.”

  “You’ll get on grand now. Man like you is well practiced with no physical contact,” Rebecca said with a good nature and a wicked grin.

  George and Fin looked at each other, before George broke the silence. “Becca, gallows humour is all well and good at a time like this, but you’re not supposed to send a man to the gallows with it. The hair was a good job, mine’s probably a bit long too. I saw someone get nabbed because of a baggy jumper. Those people at the gate, were they guests?”

  “So you saw the bodies and came in regardless. What madness made you make that climb? If we were infected, we’d only have to wait at the bottom of the rope for you to slide back down.” Rebecca tugged on the rope to test how secure it was.

  “Have yous been here since the beginning?” George said.

  “For most of it.”

  Fin was quiet. He did not know how best to broach the topic of their friend lying face down with a gunshot wound.

  George sucked in his bottom lip, his breathing still unsteady from the climb. “Madness is a good word for it, desperation probably closer. You can’t imagine what it’s like out there now. I didn’t know where else to go. I haven’t slept properly since the news broke and my family… I just need somewhere safe for a while. Stupidest idea I’ve ever had to climb down here. Halfway down I knew I wasn’t going to be able to climb back up. Somebody I shared an attic with told me he read somewhere that they were going to start bombing cities. Stop those things leaving when they’ve finished feeding.” He removed his gloves. His hands were red and raw where the rope had dug in. He took out a small bottle of green hand sanitiser and squirted half of it into his palm. He offered it to them like one would a piece of gum.

  “I came here via the Greenway path, through a few fields and gardens.”

  “Is it really that bad out there now?” Rebecca asked.

  “Weather isn't great, but sure you can’t have everything go your way. Any of the soldiers I’ve spoken to told me to head to Westport House, but there’s too many people. Those outside the cities want in, those left alive in them want out. People have ripped fences from gardens to block roads, creating safe cul-de-sacs but everyone is restless and food is becoming a concern. Half of those that I thought were infected turned out to be shell-shocked, panicked or just lost. The government doesn't seem to be doing anything.”

  “There’s still a government?” Rebecca said.

  “So far as I know, but it’s not run from Ireland. Rebecca, what are you waiting around for? I’ve a mind to head out to Achill Island myself when I’m finished here.”

  “The infection is already out there.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Hope your parents are holding up well.”

  “It spread so fast, like a spark in kindling.”

  “The spread is much slower in the countryside, but people can’t stay indoors much longer, who keeps more than a week’s food at home? Sure I haven’t cooked a meal at home in about a month. I just ordered out, so my cupboards are mostly decorative.”

  Fin could not think of anything other than Ciara's body behind him.

  “You look white as a sheet,” George said, taking a step back cautiously.

  “I’m… I’m not taking this well.”

  George nodded. “Well hang in there, this can’t go on forever. The trains have been going night and day. Supplies coming in and people going out. They’ll get a hold on this soon enough.”

  “Why haven’t you gone?” Rebecca asked.

  “This is my home, where else have I to go? No countries are taking Irish refugees. Too many people are heading to ports, expecting rescue. I guarantee you, infected are among them. Crowds are dangerous. I stayed in an empty house overlooking the train station, I saw how easily fear can turn people into savages. Armed soldiers are stationed six to a carriage, back to back in the aisles. So many people crammed into them. All it would take is a spark of panic. Those guys with rifles are the same as us. They have families and worries. Only they’ve a brief solution a trigger pull away. I’ll wait on good news and for the crowds to die down, if I go up at all.”

  “Crowds die down.” Rebecca looked repulsed. “There’s a saying that has become taboo.”

  “Ciara’s dead.” Fin blurted it out without any tact, not that it would have made the news easier.

  George’s face went slack and his shoulders sagged.

  “You remember our last night here? The man we thought was drunk in the basement was infected. That’s the other body by the gate. I don’t know why she died and we didn’t.”

  “And us giving out about her not joining us for a pint after work.”

  “She never left the hotel.”

  George lost all colour in his face. “I was down in the basement with him alone. That man was drenched in sweat, pissed himself too. Her hand was cut. I broke the glass.” His eyes twitched. He stood close to her body. “Forgive me.”

  That silence could have continued indefinitely, but Fin ended it after a respectful amount of time had passed. “You did not do this.”

  George changed the topic immediately. “What’s the food situation like here? I’m starving.”

  “Freezers are full. Chicken burger okay?” Rebecca asked.

  “That’ll do just fine.” He followed them to the kitchens. Happy Christmas Eve by the way.”

  George washed his hands and put on a pair of disposable latex gloves. “Smell of bleach is giving me a pounding headache, but it’s as sweet as freshly mown grass if it means this place is clean.”

  “How did you know it was safe here?” Fin said.

  He started eating ageing, limp salad from the fridge. “I’ve been moving about from one empty house to another since this started. Trying to come up with a plan. I stole what I needed. Somebody got a drone for Christmas, so I set it up, moved a few houses down to hide and used it to scout out the town. After I sent it up, I was pinned down for a couple of days, sound draws them like flies to rot. I was stu
pid enough to land it in the garden of the house where I was staying. Luckily there was enough food there. The owners didn’t bring supplies with them. Nearly everything was left as if they expected to be home again soon.”

  “If I had a car, I would have filled the tank and tried outrun the spread, do a lap of the country before going home,” Fin said.

  “That’s probably how it spread so quickly in the first place. I’ve the footage from the drone flight if you want to see. The town looks beautiful from above.” He put his phone on the counter and brought up the video. There was no sound. Blades of grass obscured the picture, but danced when the rotors spun. The drone rose and hung awkwardly in the air while George learned the controls. Then it soared up above the house and estate and the camera looked over the rooftops of Westport, the bay and mountains visible in the bright morning.

  It’s so small. Fin’s life and daily routine for the last year took place on that small stage. He saw the route he took to and from work. Most of the time he forgot there was more to the world than work and home. There was Solene. The peacefulness ended when he noticed how many cars were ditched with doors open. The whole Castlebar road was gridlocked.

  People ran into their gardens and waved out of windows at the drone. Some had made SOS signs out of sheets laid out in the grass or on their roofs. It was painful to watch their dejection and despair when they realised rescue had not arrived.

  Manned military checkpoints protected the train station. It was impossible to tell if the people roaming the streets were infected or not.

  A tight line of soldiers walked down the main road, guns raised. He could not tell if the person hunched over the prone body they approached was a zombie or a mourner. Either way, they died. Were the soldiers sure before shooting? George flew the drone away from town.

  The fields around Westport House were full of activity. There were too many people to count. Tents huddled together around campfires. A helicopter landed on the lawn close to the house, scattering sheep.

  “They’re fortifying the grounds,” Rebecca said. “How old is this video?”

  “Two days,” George said.

  “We need to go there. It has high walls, strong gates and soldiers with guns, it’s perfect.”

  “I wouldn’t. That last part sounded more like a deterrent to me,” George said.

  The drone flew above the coastline by the quay. In the distance, Fin could just about make out ships docked around the islands.

  “That’s where I’m going,” George said, after a mouthful of raspberry yogurt. “The plan was to scope this place out and then fly the drone over the islands.” The hotel was on screen. Hazardous material signs covered the entrance. ‘Dead Inside’ was spray-painted over the storm shields.

  “You came in with that out front?” Fin said.

  “I knew you were the only one staying here. Even then I assumed you would have gone.”

  “It was too late for that.”

  The drone scanned the windows, zoomed in on the gates and then returned to George’s location.

  “I was watching from the hill behind the hotel for a day until I was sure. Did you not hear me throwing stones down? I wasn’t expecting to find either of you. Does me good seeing familiar faces. This gets any worse, finding people is going to be impossible.”

  Fin thought of Solene. Guilt and shame warmed him. She cried for help and I’ve done nothing.

  “More staff might come here,” Rebecca said. “This place is ideal – top of the line generators in case of electrical failure, beds, food and relative safety.”

  “Unlikely. First warning on the news was to avoid public spaces. The guy here on the last night that infected Ciara is a perfect example of why.” George filled his mouth with crisps. He chopped up some onions and threw them on the tray with the chicken burgers and put it in the oven. “Yous got off easy in here.”

  “I still think we should consider Westport House.” Rebecca threw a few soft tomatoes in after the chicken.

  “If you go – and I don’t think you should – they’ll have you on work duties. Farms countrywide have been emptied. Temporary abattoirs set up to take strain off the traditional ones. It’s the largest cull in Irish history, worse than the foot-and-mouth outbreak. Meat is one of the jobs they’ll give you. There have been videos of lorries full of animals trapped in traffic, left to die of thirst. They were supposed to establish a fishery here with the port, but all the ships are out at the islands. A horrible job in this cold, but I’d sooner that than the butcher vans.”

  “Why shouldn’t we help?” Rebecca said.

  “No law that we have to, or at least if there is, there’s nobody to enforce it. Personally, I think the less people around us the better. This here is the biggest crowd that I’m comfortable with. Are the fridges in the basement still running okay?”

  Fin nodded.

  “Then the beer kegs are still frosty. Lads, I’m getting hammered tonight.”

  14

  Never Will I Ever

  “There’s nothing like watching a zombie in a torn and bloodstained Christmas jumper to put you in a festive mood,” George said. He came away from the large top floor window, washing his disgust away with a long swallow of beer.

  Fin and Rebecca got up to investigate, but he put a hand up to stop them. “It’s a small jumper.”

  “Why do you call them that?” Fin asked.

  “Zombie?”

  Fin nodded and took another swig of his whiskey. It went straight to his legs.

  George walked over to the table to warm himself by the storage heater. The fake firelight crackled just right. “Dehumanise them. Call them demons, zombies, ticket inspectors, whatever does it for you. The only thing human about them now is the clothes they wear, those won’t last long in this weather.”

  Fin stepped up to the window. He was hovering on the cusp of tipsy. A few zombies had stumbled into the pond across from the hotel during the night. Its fringes were rigid with ice, but it did not phase the undead. That’s what they are, stop denying it. He could not any longer, not when the evidence was right in front of him. Heavy clothes weighed the infected down, keeping them below the surface of the water. They had been submerged for hours, but were still moving. The current? In a pond? Trick of the light and wind rippling across the surface.

  “Can we have one day without thinking about this stuff, please?” Rebecca said.

  “Yes!” Fin blurted out and left the window.

  “I can understand that, even want it, but we can’t,” George said. “Right now we’re safe, we have food, there’s no way a zombie is getting in, they’ll even protect us from other survivors. But acting as if nothing has happened is far too dangerous, maybe not immediately, but there’ll come a time when we’re no longer safe. We’ll get hungry and if we’re afraid to face the reality of what’s out there, then we might find it as difficult to open the doors as the undead.”

  “We shouldn’t forget that they are no longer human, but, by that logic, best remember to act like you’re human,” Fin said, giving George a weary look and nodding towards Rebecca.

  He copped onto himself then. “Festive conversation, got it.” He gave a wink that was so obvious it need not have existed. “What’s your Christmas routine like?” he asked Rebecca. “Or what was it like before this?”

  Fin took a long drink. He knew George meant no harm.

  “I was after a different topic of conversation more than complete escapism,” she said.

  “Right now, I’d be jumping on my parents’ bed to wake them up, so we could all go down and open presents,” Fin said.

  “I didn’t mean what you did when you were a child, I meant now,” George said.

  “So did I.”

  “I’d be doing a Christmas Day swim with my cousins,” Rebecca said.

  “Normally I’d be out in my Nan’s, she’d make us all go to mass. Hated it as a child, but I grew to like the ritual as I got older,” George said. He cleared his throat. “What a
re the bets that that mad man living on the mountain carried a tree up to the church on the summit? Decorations and all. Forgot the star for the top of it and had to go all the way back down again.”

  “We can’t be the only ones to have seen his light,” Rebecca said. “People know somebody’s up there. When rescue comes, whoever they are will be amongst the first saved. Kind of gives me hope, seeing that light each day, makes me feel like we’re not alone.”

  To kill time they played the ‘never have I ever’ drinking game, but stopped when it started becoming a mood killer; there were a lot of things on their to-do lists that they might never get a chance at. Never will I ever.

  “We don’t need a game to drink. What do they have on the television?” George asked.

  They brought a large one in from a suite that had been vacant for two weeks before the outbreak. Knowing how many people had called it home temporarily meant none of them wanted to linger long in its luxury. Some of the headlines could be taken as promising, if you squinted at them: ‘Cases of suspected infection discovered in America’ and ‘Europe sterilised’. So clinical a term for murder. ‘Dublin being fortified; renamed The Pale’. ‘Humanitarian aid from around the globe flooding through capital’.

  “Nobody wants to see it spread,” George said. “They clear their conscience through their pockets.”

  Flicking through the channels, George paused on an American talk show. “So you’re suggesting instead of air dropping proper guns for the Irish population, you want to manufacture faulty ones for them. How long will that take?”

  “Built-in obsolescence as a safety feature, giving guns to people that feel hard done by, by the rest of the world – you stop one problem and cause two more. It is unconscionable to arm Ireland.”

  Another guest in the debate jumped in. “The majority of people feel the complete opposite. They’re facing the most horrendous challenge of our time. What if the gun breaks at a critical moment? Not a month ago you were campaigning on the basis that you would not bring in gun reform in this country because ‘they are just tools.’ Well the Irish people are in desperate need of hardware. Somebody has deeper pockets than the gun lobbyists? Whose badge are you wearing now?”