by Brady, Eoin
They repeated the process in a few rooms on every floor. Fin stopped outside David's room. “This is where it happened. We brought him here. Ciara…”
“Any clue how he was infected? Where did he come from?” George started writing a warning on the door.
“He didn’t have an Irish accent,” Fin said. “If you want to go in and check his passport, be my guest. Does it matter? There’s nothing in there for us.”
Rebecca sprayed the door handle with bleach and let it rest.
“I never knew there was a swimming pool up here,” George started running down the hall, following signs to the spa. The smell of chlorine filled the air.
“Are you joking?” Fin hurried to keep up. “How long have you worked here?”
“You underestimate how little I care about this job.” George started undressing. “Do me a favour and wipe the camera feed for me, will you? I don’t have my swimming gear, so it’s a dip in the nip.”
“You could do with a wash too,” Rebecca said to Fin as they entered the pool room. The water was still as glass and as blue as gravestones.
George lept from the edge, the backwash spattered the hem of their pants. He surfaced with a yelp and quickly swam to the edge. “It’s freezing!”
Before Fin had time to counter, Rebecca barrelled into him, knocking them both into the pool. George was not exaggerating. Fin rose to the top and spluttered, wiping water from his eyes. She swam into the centre of the pool and floated on her back.
George acclimatised and started doing lengths. “I expected we would have found more in the rooms, but they hardly seem worth the effort.”
“Wait until we get to the suites on the top floor,” Fin said. “Those things are essentially self-contained houses.”
“They don’t put that chemical into the pool that changes colour when you pee, do they?” George asked.
“No, why?”
“No reason.”
“You had to go and spoil it, didn’t you?” Rebecca swam towards the ladder.
It felt odd to Fin, the three of them messing in the pool while the rest of the country fell apart.
They left a trail of wet carpet behind them as they went to the top floor to get changed. It was difficult to look at Rebecca in Solene’s clothes.
There were fewer rooms on the top floor. All of them were larger than Fin’s apartment. The first one was opulent. The fridge was fully stocked and there was a basket of nuts and dried fruits on the counter.
“Why are we not staying up here?” George said.
“I don’t think I could stomach living like this now.” Rebecca threw a few of the vestigial pillows off the bed and lay down.
“Well, I can, so keep your shoes off my bed,” George said.
There was a wonderful vista of the bay and the islands beyond. “I wonder how people are coping out there,” Fin said.
“They went out as soon as the storm would let them.” George chewed an expensive chocolate bar, weathering Rebecca’s comments about rationing. “A few of them left before that. The islands are beautiful in summer. You’d think they’d make a perfect location to see this out, but they rely on food being brought from the mainland. They must be starving.”
The chocolate in Fin’s mouth soured. “They probably brought the infection out with them.”
Rebecca kicked her shoes off and turned the television on. The good spirit they felt during the day seemed localised entirely to the hotel.
The video on screen was shot from a helicopter slowly flying above a small town. The streets were completely overrun; slow zombies followed fast weepers, all drawn by the sound of the helicopter. There was no chance of escape for survivors not already barricaded indoors. The helicopter hovered over a castle tower on top of a grassy hill. The camera zoomed in on people on the battlement, who waved the pilot away. They frantically tore down flags with ‘HELP’ written on them. The camera panned down to the base of the stone walls, where the recent dead converged, drawn by the helicopter and the sounds of the living from within.
“Those poor people,” Rebecca said. “Are they idiots? Get the helicopter out of there!”
"This is live and exclusive on…" The broadcaster cut off as the gate, designed to keep out tourists, buckled under the weight and tireless force of the infected. The camera operator focused in on the zombies that poured into the caged civilians.
The uniformity of their deathmask expressions horrified Fin. It was their indifference he found so disturbing.
“Fly away,” Rebecca stood up. “If they just flew away they could draw the infected off.”
Zooming out, the camera panned up to the roof. Most of the people had disappeared to find cover or defend themselves. They would find nothing of use within the cold stone skeleton. The lower windows had been barred for public safety. They would not escape.
A woman stood up on the parapet on quaking legs, held a hand out to somebody below the wall and screamed something at them. A hand reached up, trying to pull her to safety, but she backed away, closer to the edge. A man climbed up, holding his arms out to calm her. She walked into his embrace. Their foreheads pressed together. Both were crying. They kissed and spoke. There was no sound, they were given that small privacy at least, while the camera picked them apart.
Arms locked around each other, his hand cradled her head against his chest. He looked into the lens, eyes overflowing. He knew the noise, fear and danger were beyond them now. His stare a silent indictment to those watching from safety. ‘How can you do nothing?’
He kissed her head, whispered a prayer into her hair and closed his eyes. As one, they stepped to the edge of the tower. Hands reached up and grabbed hold of him, more tore at his clothes. The woman held on to him, tried to pull him free. For a moment, it looked like she would, until she tugged too hard and lost her grip, tumbling backwards, to fall alone. The man was consumed by the mass of arms, slipping out of view.
The feed cut before she hit the ground, the video seemed frozen but the reporter in the studio pulled his earpiece out with shaking hands. He tried to speak but found no words.
“I hope they find the people in that helicopter and put them in front of cameras,” Fin said.
“I don’t think that fall would have killed her,” George stared at the screen.
“Shut up.” Rebecca changed the channel. The national broadcaster had calorific information graphics on how to ration what you have. She clicked again, to a different news channel that showed a fishing vessel burning, barely clinging to the surface of the sea.
“Infected were found onboard and the navy cleansed this ship before it could contaminate English shores. Volunteers have flocked to the coast to combat the threat of infected reaching land,” the reporter said. “Panic grips the world, but nowhere more so than the island next to a ravaged Ireland. A reminder to our Irish viewers: all ships will be turned back. Aid vessels and cargo planes laden with support are inbound to Dublin. The newly formed Allied Nations Pandemic Defence has released a statement for the Irish people. You are not alone. Do not spread this disease. Do not break quarantine. Help is coming. The feeling in England is of complete panic. Behind me are members of the New Home Guard who have cordoned off the scene of a zombie wash-up during the night…”
The body above the tide line was surrounded by rocks and bricks.
“This comes ahead of the news just yesterday that brave people in Blackpool confronted a raft of zombies. Reports of refugees spreading the disease to the Isle of Man were confirmed by the British government earlier today. Rapid response units ensured containment. Emergency powers have been granted to the military in Britain, while the President of the United States has called a state of emergency. Navy vessels from both countries have been tasked to the region to contain this natural disaster.”
“Bollox to that,” George said. “They expect us to believe that a boat of zombies sailed to Blackpool. It’s propaganda. Look at those grinning, smiling bastards.”
“I read onlin
e that there’s a growing anti-Irish sentiment in some places, as if this is some race-specific plague,” Rebecca said.
“I’ve not seen the zombies ask to see your passport before chowing down. The media has to be being censored,” George struggled to open a bottle of water with shaking hands. It dribbled down his chin when he took a sip. “I don’t begrudge them what they’re doing. They’re scared. If it had hit England before us, I’d be the first one on the east coast sands, with a rock in each hand. Right now, they have their loved ones. What I wouldn’t do for the chance to have helped mine.”
Gunfire outside made them jump. The three of them lay on the ground. Rebecca fumbled with the remote to turn the television off, but only managed to change the channel. Fin crawled to the edge of the window. A squad of soldiers swept through the street. Behind them, others used handguns to make sure the dead stayed down. Weepers sped towards them. Some of the soldiers faltered, but enough held the line to get them safely to the factory by the port.
Half an hour had passed from the time Rebecca thought to check, before they saw a speedboat come in from the bay. George cheered. “The cavalry's here.”
Fin felt the knots in his chest loosen a little. Help was coming.
“They’re going to make the port safe to start fishing,” George said. “Actually, the job I want is to be set up on a pontoon in the middle of the river with ammunition, a rifle and a few beers.”
“We have to help now,” Rebecca said. “Imagine they find us living like royalty in here.”
“Personally, I’m good until I run out of food and other options,” George said.
“Guys…”
Fin followed Rebecca's gaze to the television. Dublin airport was burning; twisted metal, ballooning gouts of black smoke and tongues of flame lacerated the sky. Drone footage captured the explosions as fuel tankers caught and engines exploded.
George threw his chair against the wall. The noise was horrendous in this new world of silence. Rebecca took her phone out and went on the internet. “Belfast is gone too. There are pictures of small airfields destroyed across the county. This was an attack.”
George ground his teeth. “I don’t think we can stay here long,” he said. “Maybe try those islands, or head out into the countryside. Survivors won’t leave this place empty, not after seeing this news. There won’t be an evacuation, we’re stuck here and this place is too much of a good thing.”
“We’re safe,” Fin said.
“They gave you suicide pills when they met you, let you do the hard work for them. Do you think they’re going to take chances? They’ll scorch this place.”
Fin looked down at the crowd of weepers lining the quay. I can’t go out there with them. “Maybe we’d be better off with the people in Westport House, with the soldiers. Hide enough food for the three of us. Or find a hiding place here, that’s warm, with water.”
George held his knuckles against his eyes and cursed. “We can’t hide like that, without information about what’s happening. I’ll head out tonight and have a look around, now that the zombies are clear out the front. I’m not going with yous if yous decide to join Westport House camp. I know I sound paranoid, but I think we’d be safer on our own. Look what they did to the airports.”
“A precaution,” Rebecca said.
“No, I think we’re on our own,” Fin said. “Come here and have a look at this.”
They gathered at the window and watched the speedboat full of soldiers head off into the bay. They watched their hope shrink until it was completely out of sight.
16
Mortgage Free
George left before dawn. The three of them stood in the light drizzle in the car park, looking up the long length of rope that George had left behind. He shook his arms and jogged on the spot, taking long breaths to psych himself up. All the cords on his rain jacket were taped down, or cut off. There was a bottle of cooking oil in his pack which he would lather on at the top of the climb, to “make the zombies work for their meal.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Fin said. “If you fell and survived, that would be considered unlucky, given the circumstances.”
Water ran down the sheer wall in little rivulets. George tugged on the rope, his knots held. “Stop talking.” He put the rope between his legs, hooked it under one foot and pinched it to the side of the other. Grabbing the rope with his gloved hands, he brought his knees to his chest and locked his feet around the rope again. “Right, this is good. Send the stuff up after me.”
“Be careful,” Rebecca said. “I don’t think it’s worth going, not for us, we’re good here.”
“Your objection is noted, but as I said, I don’t want to feel comfortable enough in a place to become trapped. This is my choice. Now, my arms are already getting sore. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be back much quicker than any of us are comfortable with.” He started the climb.
He stopped halfway up the wall, lying into it to relieve the stress on his hands. “Do you think he’s okay?” Rebecca whispered.
George looked down to them and seemed to be on the verge of speaking, but they were too far away, his voice would echo in the empty space. Both of them stuck their thumbs up to let him know he was making good progress. The last half of the climb was the hardest. His breaks were more frequent and lasted longer.
Near the top of the climb he was shaking. His sharp, wheezing breaths made Fin and Rebecca run to the base of the wall and sharply whisper encouragement up to him, regardless of who might hear. With one final push, he reached out for the top of the wall and slowly crawled to safety. The lump in Fin’s throat shrunk a little as he watched George’s feet wriggle out of sight. A few moments later, his head stuck out and he waved.
They tied a bag of supplies and a few tools to the end of the rope and watched as he pulled it up. Enough food and water to keep him for a few days, should he become trapped. There was so little strength in his arms that they expected the bag to fall back down.
“He’s braver than I am,” Fin said.
“It feels weird without him,” Rebecca said. “Do you think he’s right to leave?”
“Maybe. You saw how many people are in Westport House. It’s just down the road. How long does it take for somebody that’s infected to turn? Enough time for them to seek shelter amongst others?”
They did not wander far from the front door, taking their meals within a few feet of it, ready to open it should George need them. Fin lost track of the number of times he read over the same page of his new gardening book. By afternoon he stopped trying, and instead just counted the shadows of the infected walking past. Losing count of that was far more disheartening.
“Guys?” George’s voice was little more than a whisper.
Fin and Rebecca huddled over one radio. “Are you okay?” Fin asked.
“Perfect. I feel like I’ve been out house hunting, except I bypassed the whole dread of getting a mortgage and wondering if I’ll live long enough to pay it back.”
“What did you find?” Rebecca said.
“A lovely little bungalow right on the waterfront, with a renovated attic. There’s a massive, solid gate out front, with trees and bushes to hide it from the road. Granted we will have to do a bit of work, there are no walls around the back garden. If we are quiet though, it should be perfect.”
“What about the owners?” Rebecca asked.
“They left a note,” George’s tone dulled. “I’m fairly certain they won’t return before this ends. The roads are clearer than I had hoped. I’ll head back now. Pack up as much food as the three of us can safely move and we’ll bring it with us before it gets too bright.”
Fin took his finger off the receiver so that George could not hear them speak. “What do you think?”
“We have to leave at some point, but I wasn’t ready to leave now. I like the idea of having more options,” Rebecca said. “But I can’t shake the feeling that we are making a mistake.”
“Sure we’d feel that way
if we decided to stay.”
“I suppose.”
Fin held the receiver down. “Okay, George.”
About twenty minutes after George ended the transmission, the infected outside the hotel started weeping and ran off. The slower ones took longer to leave; some were so slow that they forgot why they were moving and just stopped, stood still and wavered on their feet, or were drawn off by other natural noises.
When George radioed again he was out of breath. “Let me in!”
Just as they unlocked the door, he skidded on the path, trying to slow his momentum. He slammed the door behind him. Fin braced against it, while Rebecca fumbled with the lock. Doubled over, George was panting and laughing. “There’s nothing following me, I just got it in my head that there was.”
“Give us a bit of a warning. What would you have done if I was pinching a loaf?”
“Well, I’d probably pinch one too.”
Fin laughed and clapped George on the shoulder. He imagined the reverence he felt for the man must have been akin to those who watched astronauts come back from the moon. They were already dressed and ready to leave. Their supplies were in bags that were stuffed with toilet paper to reduce noise.
“What’s it like?” Rebecca asked. She leaned against the door and peered out of the side window. The night had a purple hue, meaning the day would soon start.
“Like a dream. One of those when everything seems normal, but it’s surreal enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a dream. They just stand there until something draws them. Gives me the creeps.”
“Did you kill any?” Fin asked.
“Not a one and I’ll avoid it like my life depends on it. Best way to survive this is to keep your head down. I set the alarm off on an empty house. If we leave soon, it should still keep them busy.”
It felt real now. George had emptied his supply bags at the house and now filled them up again in the kitchen. “We stay quiet and we’ll be there in fifteen minutes. It’s beautiful. Guys, you’re going to love it.”
