by Brady, Eoin
“We’re fed, so the main rule is not to rush into anything,” George said. “That’s how we stay alive. We don’t go out of our way to put down any infected. The only exception to engaging them is if somehow they get into the attic and are nibbling on your toes during the night. Aside from that, just let them walk by. There’s electricity and internet here, let’s use it. We’ll make a nest in the attic. Salvage what’s around. Mostly selection boxes and Christmas party foods. Which reminds me.” He took out a fistful of toothbrushes and paste from his jacket pocket and handed them out.
Rebecca leaned on the windowsill and watched the street. “This is a good spot. We have the water at our backs. I wonder why the owners left.”
“Leanne was supposed to follow her parents when her college exams finished,” George said. “They were going to spend Christmas in New York. I hope she made it.”
“You knew these people?” Fin asked. He sat on the swiveling chair that had left deep dents in the carpet.
“I don’t. From the moment we walked through the front door, I’ve been on edge, waiting to hear a key in the door and voices downstairs,” George said.
Photos of family and friends hung on the wall above the desk. Personal mementos and exam schedules piled up to make it look messy, but somebody found order here. Fin turned the photo of a young woman on the desk around, to avoid her eyes.
“Leanne wrote a letter,” George took a sheet of paper from the desk drawer.
“I don’t want to read that,” Fin said. “I feel bad enough being here as it is, without completely invading her privacy.”
“This was written the day before flights stopped.” Rebecca said.
“She made it,” George delicately took the letter back and placed it on the desk, almost reverently.
“This is a beautiful house, Solene would love it.”
“Have you heard back from her yet?” George asked.
Fin regretted mentioning her. He was able to ignore thoughts of her so long as he kept busy. He did not want to go to Westport House, but if the trains started bringing people to the capital, then he needed to be on one. “We haven’t had much contact.”
“There’s something trending online, #I’mAlive. Maybe you want to post that before going out. When she manages to get online, it might bring her peace knowing you’re okay,” Rebecca said.
“Maybe the person living on the mountain should put a hashtag before the SOS. They might have been rescued by now.”
“George!” Rebecca admonished him and laughed uneasily. “Probably safer up there than we are down here. It’s all loose scree. From what I’ve seen, those things can’t handle a steep incline well.”
The chair squeaked when Fin leaned back, he stood up instead of risking more noise. “Can you imagine the amount of guns they have in America? You can get them in supermarkets. What have we got, hurling sticks?”
“My mam used to keep me in check with a wooden spoon, even the threat of it alone was enough to make me behave,” Rebecca said. “Maybe the infected have retained a fear of it.”
“We could get some wooden spoons and put some nails through them so,” George said. “We could make some bows and arrows, used to do that as a child.”
“Nonsense, waste of time,” Rebecca said. “I assume neither of you are skilled archers. You get one shot. The skull is thick. Better a cinder block on a rope and drop it on one from the roof.”
“I made it this long without having to kill one of those things,” George said.
“It’s mad how quickly we can talk about killing,” Fin said. “I don’t know what’s going on in their heads, but something has to be. You think it’s easy to stand, but it’s a miracle of millions of years of evolution, all those muscles, tendons, the brain does it all. They can hear. Can they understand? All that movement requires energy and I doubt they’re solar powered, not in Ireland at least. They become infected, they go manic and then slow down. There seems to be a natural decline. We might not need to kill at all, they might just die. We agree we can’t fight them, that’s ridiculous…”
“You don’t think they’re dead?” George said. “I’ve seen them moving with wounds no living thing could survive.”
“I didn’t say they’re not zombie-like. Maybe their brain does not know when they’ve been wounded. Hormones all over the place. The movie zombie is illogical.”
“Maybe it’s a logic we have to come to terms with.” George cupped his hands and blew hot hair into them. “It’s bitter.” He went downstairs to figure out the central heating system. The radiators started to hum.
“The kettle’s on, I found a few hot water bottles, should be ready in a few minutes,” George said, sticking his head through the attic hatch. He looked worried. “I don’t know how long we will have it for. Need to find electrical heaters and maybe a place with solar panels or a wind turbine. The islands don’t look too appealing now. There’s a tank of heating oil in the garden, it’s about a quarter full. If the gas and electricity go, then cold will get people before hunger does.”
“We’re just waiting for things to end,” Fin said. “I need to leave.”
Rebecca made to speak but lapsed into silence. Fin thought if he stayed he would eventually die, whereas there was hope in trying for home. Maybe I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try. He realised with loathing that he could stay hidden, hibernate away the worst of the plague. That was why he had to go, to prove himself wrong. They probably think that if I leave I won’t last long. He was not one for hugs, so when Rebecca put her arms around him he flinched. Once his arms were around her, he found it hard to let go.
18
Last Will & Testament
The stress of leaving the safety of the loft to cook dinner hardly seemed worth the full belly. They destroyed downstairs, pulling books from shelves, upending the kitchen table and emptying the contents of the cupboards onto the ground, to give the appearance of having already been ransacked. When they were finished, they filled the stairs to the loft with towels and bedding, so that on first glance the attic would go unnoticed. George took the lightbulb from the stairway. If you did not know the loft was there, it would remain hidden. They piled blankets on top of the trapdoor to muffle any sound they made. They felt safe in their little bubble.
The only thing the three of them could agree on was that they would look out for each other, which did not align with their separate plans. Rebecca wanted Achill Island. George wanted to disappear into the countryside – a lake island was his preference. Fin wanted to be with his family and Solene.
Rebecca regularly offered to ring her on his behalf. She did not understand that if he called and she did not pick up, then he could be certain that she was gone. If he never rang, there was a chance that she was still alive. That chance was keeping him going.
Before leaving, Fin locked himself in the bathroom. The shower still worked, but after their efforts to conceal themselves, the noise of it would ruin their hard work. Hunkered because of the slanting roof, he undressed. He was not overweight by much – in his uniform he barely noticed it – but there was no hiding from the naked truth; he was in no shape for the trip ahead. He turned the hot water on and washed himself with a face cloth.
The skin beneath his eyes was purple. When he finished, he lay on the cold tiles and tried to do a few push-ups. He only managed eight before he sprawled on the ground, his arms shaking. If I leave and they’re dead or I can’t find Solene, what then? The anger that had welled up at the injustice of what was happening was gone, turned into anguish the moment he started wondering how Solene and his family were coping. If she’s alive, she must be terrified that I’m dead. I’m selfish.
He tried to remember the last words they said to each other, but the echo of her terrified crying in the voice message permeated every precious memory he had. All he wanted was to curl up with her and fall asleep, warmed in the comfort of each other. If something happens to me, she will never know how my last days were spent.
> He dressed quickly in stolen clothes and went back to the office. Rebecca and George were still sitting in front of the television.
“I’m sick of seeing ‘breaking news’,” George said. “I can’t wait until they’ve nothing new to show.”
Fin found a notepad with a few empty pages left and a packet of plastic folder pockets. He took one out and put Leanne's note safely inside it, to protect it until the intended readers came home. It seemed so precious; if her family survived, this would give them closure. Solene deserved that, at the very least. He closed the door over to drown out the news report. Leaning over the page, staring at the pristine, blank space, he did not know what to say.
‘What do I say to you?’ He wrote that down to start with and then crossed it out and turned to a fresh page.
‘This letter is frozen in a moment and in it I am thinking of you. For all the moments of my life to come, your memory will be with me, until I am with you again. I hope that this letter might bring you peace, if you read it. If I’m handing this letter to you in person, that last sentence probably seems a bit dramatic. Then again, after the ink dries, you might never know what follows. I’m afraid all the time and I feel guilty and ashamed, that I am here without you. I don’t know how to explain it. I wish that I could though, to lie in our bed and just talk. I have no idea where you are or how you’re getting on. You are my home and without you I’m lost.’
When he started writing down memories they shared, he did not stop until his hand cramped and many pages had been filled with fondness. Suddenly, the few remaining pages in the notebook seemed unfit to house all the memories he had of her.
George and Rebecca left him alone. When he finished, he tore the pages from the notepad and put them inside a plastic pocket for protection.
“Is there any ink in that pen left for us?” George asked, when he showed them what he was doing.
“What are you going to do with it?” Rebecca asked.
“Leave it in our apartment, if I can. Should I die, then at least she will have this.”
“Never imagined I’d be writing a last will and testament while I still had hair and my own teeth,” George said. “Why did you not just record a video and send it to her?”
“I didn’t think of it. My words come off better when I write them down anyway, I feel like more of me comes across. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. Mostly I was asking for posthumous forgiveness for throwing my slippers at the cats when they annoyed me.”
“In all seriousness,” George said, taking on a no-nonsense attitude that fit him poorly, “town is far too dangerous to walk through for the sake of a letter. You’re safe now. If you go in just to leave that in your old apartment, then it may as well be a suicide note. Would you just email it to her?”
“Why didn’t I think of that either?” He was glad he could still make them laugh. “What are yous going to do while I’m gone?”
“Write letters, try to find my people online,” Rebecca said. “My friends list is like a virtual mortuary. So many of them have not been active in a while.”
“If I get a chance to take the train, I will. I’ll come and find you after this ends.”
“Come back if you don’t,” Rebecca stood up to hug him.
“Thank you for everything, I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”
George changed the TV channel back to the game feed. He took the remote and unpaused the game. “Don’t tell them where we are.”
They spent the night playing games. After George kept the remote for five missions, they stopped taking turns after each death, instead playing a mission each. Rebecca was the first to turn in. George suggested Fin have the bed. He thought he would not sleep, but he nodded off in the warmth of the blanket, listening to the sonorous sound of Rebecca’s snores and the reassuring comfort of George playing games. He could understand why George was upset with him. Why spoil this?
In the morning Fin could not bring himself to eat anything. The three of them watched the road for twenty minutes before they were sure it was empty. Birds still chirped in their roosts.
“Are you sure?” George asked.
“No, but what’s that saying, comfort is the death of progress, or something like that.”
“Nah mate, zombies will be the death of you. A hot water bottle to keep your tootsies warm at night won’t do you any harm.”
“I’m a coward, George, to be honest with you. I want nothing more than to nail that door shut behind me. Live off our supplies and play games until the power fails, but I can’t hide from myself. I have to try.”
“There’s no shame in living.” He handed him a backpack that he had worked on during the night, taping the straps down. “Keep living.”
Fin hopped over the gate, regretting that their last view of him was him struggling. There was no way of knowing what it was like in front of the hotel, but he kept the key to the lobby warm in his fist, should he need it. His pack was light: he had water, but little food. George insisted on it, in case they questioned him. He could say hunger drove him from his shelter.
Despite everything, it was a nice morning and he tried to enjoy that and not focus on the stares from Rebecca and George peeking over the gate, looking like they would never see him again. His heart felt lighter now that he carried it on a few pieces of paper, tucked away in his pocket.
19
The Butcher Van
Fin kept to the shadows where the sun had not yet reached and slipped on black ice. He fell to his knees before the unfamiliar weight of his gear brought him down on top of it. Water dampened his trousers, but he stayed still until he was certain nothing heard him. Satisfied, he opened his pack, dug out the kitchen knife he stole from the house and threw it into the ditch. If he fell on the hammer, he could survive a bruise.
The knife struck a stone in the ditch. The little noise it made was like a tuning fork setting the pitch of the weeping that started behind him. Turning sharply, Fin nearly slipped on the ice again. He saw the shadow of an adult weeper, sprinting down the drive of a house with an open door. The safehouse was too far away; the weeping was already picked up by others, like a pack of wolves. In that moment, he gave up. The knife was lost in the weeds.
Fin slipped his arms from the rucksack. The weight of the hammer seemed inconsequential in his hand. The weeper had been a woman. She barreled onto the road and searched both ways. Too late, he realised he could have hid in the ditch. In her haste to reach him, she lost her footing on the ice. Tearing at the frozen grass, she pulled herself up.
Run! With the ice he had a chance. His fist tightened around the hotel key. The weeping of the infected woman roused others around him. The countryside was suddenly alive with anguish. I’m not going to make it, Solene. Her letter was safe in his pocket with his bank cards. At least they could put a name on his grave. If I make it to the pier I can swim to Westport House. He was not sure if the cold would kill him, but he was certain the weepers would.
Back on the main road, she started gaining on him. These streets were better and less slippery. Fin slid over the bonnet of a car that had been abandoned behind a crash. He weaved between another one, trying to break line of sight. Daring a quick glance back he watched her feet fly out from under her. She slipped on the ice between the cars. Her head struck the ground with a sickening crunch. Her weeping stopped.
Stories about the banshee had haunted his childhood. The keening noise the infected made brought back that deep fear of facing something that could not be reasoned or bargained with.
Tall buildings kept the ice on the road, and it slowed him to a careful jog. He just had to stay ahead of them. Five emerged from alleyways and homes, racing each other to reach him. There was no time to get to the hotel and the road to the pier was full of them. Get to Westport House. If there were infected on the road between him and the gates to the camp – he did not want to think about it.
There was no way of knowing if the bodies sprawled on the road were thoroughly de
ad. Passing holiday homes and a block of apartments, it dawned on him that if there were sentries at Westport House, then they would likely be itching to shoot at anything running towards them.
“I’m not infected!”
The silence that returned was not reassuring. The closer he came to the gate, the less certain he was that anybody still lived beyond it. Maybe they’ve all gone to Dublin. Moments from reaching it, he was certain it was too high for him to climb. They would pull him down before he made it.
Cars were parked across the road to create a maze that the undead would have difficulty navigating. The morning light melted most of the ice here. They were quickly gaining on him. Fin tried calling out one last time. There was no movement on the walls or behind the gate. If he ran down the slipway into the water, they would have him in the shallows. He turned, fighting against every instinct not to. Hammer ready. More infected joined the ranks, coming down the hill from town. The slower ones did not seem to be much of an issue by themselves, but the sheer number would quickly overwhelm him. He could already imagine their teeth cutting into his flesh. Biting and beating him until their attacks elicited no more response.
Three cars away, two. Fin climbed onto the roof of an SUV. They would be able to swipe at his legs, but he hoped he could cave in a few skulls before the end.
“Come on!”
The closest zombie fell. The bark of the shot only registered as gunfire a few seconds later. He dropped to his knees on the roof of the SUV. “I’m not infected!”
“If you don’t shut up, I’ll leave you out there and you will be. Keep it down, you’ll bring half the town down on us.” A soldier lowered a metal ladder over the wall. Fin dropped off the roof and ran for it before the ladder touched the ground. He ducked when another shot was fired. Halfway up the ladder he looked behind him. A zombie was lying on the road twitching. Another one spun and fell. The bullet tore muscle and bone from its shoulder. The metal rungs of the ladder sang as he ran up them. He rolled across the top of the ivy covered wall, clutching vines to keep him in place.
