Weep (Book 1): The Irish Epidemic

by Brady, Eoin

  The petrol station was shuttered, the pumps empty, most left lying on the ground. Abandoned cars filled the road, left by people trying to reach the train.

  An old railtrack bridge crossed the road. Sentries were posted on both sides. Looking up, Fin could see they were on metal grates, not concrete. The stairway up to them was barricaded. As far as he could tell, they were safe from everything but the elements. The street ahead was lined with bodies; some had been moved to the kerb, but the more recent ones lay where they had dropped.

  “You’re late,” one sentry said. “Everything okay?”

  Lynch checked his watch and shared a discomforting look with Burke. “Training’s over for today.”

  “We got no word over the radio that the train arrived early,” Burke said. He made some hand signs to those posted on the bridge. The aloof yet watchful tone changed in an instant. They were alert. Weapons ready.

  “You want to head back?” Burke asked Fin.

  “No, I won’t get in the way, I’ll just watch. Extra set of eyes can’t hurt.” The train is so close.

  “You make a noise and I’ll shoot you in the gut to distract them,” Burke said and turned away before Fin could say anything. He chose to pass it off as a joke, it was that or walk through town alone.

  The road here had been cleared, all cars pushed onto the paths. The train was idle. “Burke, I’m getting nothing on the radio,” Lynch said.

  Burke continued on towards the train. “I told the captain I’d stay until this train came. If replacements and reinforcements aren’t here, that’s not my problem.”

  “Do you think she’d shoot you if you left?” Muireann asked.

  “If I made a show of going in front of others, then I’d deserve to be shot. No, if I was going to do it, I’d go missing on patrol. Carry all I needed.”

  “You couldn’t take much with you.” Muireann stopped talking as they neared the small station.

  They walked out from cover. The platform was empty. Whenever Fin went home to visit family, he would get this train and cut across the country to Heuston Station, get a coffee and a bun from the trolley and read. A tram and a bus would see him home an hour after he landed in Dublin.

  He imagined sneaking onto one of the carriages and stowing away, the soldiers would not miss him. There was no plan beyond that, there was no knowing what he was heading towards. By all accounts, people were desperately trying to get away from the capital. George and Rebecca were safe. He could let them know that he was leaving over the radio when he boarded. Walking from Westport across the country was suicide, but following the coast from Dublin, that was manageable. He just needed to get there.

  Crudely made metal railings like bull bars were fitted to the front of the train. Viscera clung to the joints. Blood streaked along the windshield of the engine, but the wipers kept a small partition clear for the driver to navigate by. Fin wanted to believe that an animal had gotten onto the tracks, but the shreds of clothing dispelled him of that lie. These were the remains of humans, a lot of them.

  “That’s fresh,” Burke said.

  Rifles raised, Lynch and Muireann jumped from the platform onto the tracks to check the other side of the train. “I don’t see our replacements,” Muireann said.

  “Clear behind,” Burke said. “I’m coming back. First carriage is empty.”

  The driver was still in the cab. Lynch waved to get his attention. The driver was slow to respond, shell-shock or terror, it seemed to take a great effort for him to talk. He refused to take his hands away from his ears. His face contorted, as if he were on the verge of crying or screaming, he could just not decide which.

  Burke pulled the emergency escape handle, his rifle pointed squarely at the driver’s chest. “What happened?”

  The man started babbling, Lynch had to pull his hands down from his ears. He flinched back, covering them again. “The noise, please, I can’t listen. Close the door, I beg you.” The smell from the gore was like nothing Fin could have imagined; a fresh butcher’s shop came close, though.

  “So many of them. Every station overrun. I thought the train would come off the track. The line is not long enough, they’ll follow. Close the door, please. They’ll be here soon. Please.”

  “Where are the reinforcements?” Muireann asked.

  Fin looked down the platform. All you had to do was stand behind the yellow line and you were safe. One window, two carriages down, was fogged up. The track behind the train was completely empty, so he went to investigate, staying on the safe side of the yellow line. The sound of the driver’s infectious panic followed him.

  “I don’t want to hear them.” The man rambled in a thick Dublin accent.

  Every step forward was an exhausting effort against self-preservation, but he kept moving until he could see that the window was not fogged: it had shattered, frosted with spiderweb fractures. Sudden movement inside the carriage made him drop to a crouch, every muscle tensed.

  A person ran down the carriage and stopped to listen to the driver’s pleading. In the expectant silence, Fin heard them running and crying in the end carriages of the train. Weepers. Windows on carriages further from the engine were completely shattered and bullet holes peppered the metal, shards pointing outwards, fired from within.

  Another person sprinted down the aisle, tripped and fell from view when it saw Fin. It crawled back up, leaning against an unbroken window. The infected slapped a hand against the glass so hard that Fin saw it ripple. The sound drew the attention of the others. Fin froze, bolted to the spot, while the creature watched him. The wedding ring on its hand clanged against the glass. Someone cut the engine. Without its low roar, the sound of weeping filled the silence.

  Another weeper ran past, continuing on further down the carriage. Had the door been open, Fin would have died. What use is a hammer against one of those? They don’t flinch away from a blow to save themselves and you only have one shot, whereas their bloody fingers and ruined hands could reach me, while I’m fending off their teeth.

  The one that had him in its sights slid along the window getting closer to the brittle glass, delicate like spring puddle ice. It hit the window again, waking Fin from his stupor, and he fell back hard. Fin caught shadows moving towards them in the other carriages. A warm wetness blossomed in his crotch. Crawling into a stumble, he ran back to the others.

  Muireann and Lynch immediately guessed what the situation was from the look on his face, their expressions sudden mirrors of his own.

  “The train is full,” he said. “All weepers.”

  The carriages rattled now that the creatures were riled. The train rang out with their horrid sounds. The driver pushed Burke out of the cabin, closed the door and started the engine back up.

  Burke snarled and raised his rifle, but Lynch slapped it down. “Are you stupid? There are too many. With our luck you’d probably shoot an emergency open button and bring them all down on us at once.” Lynch stepped back from the train.

  “Come on, we’ll take you with us,” Muireann said.

  A body tumbled out of a broken window onto the platform. It hit the ground hard. In the space of a breath, it stood up. More followed. The window in the first carriage shattered.

  “Run,” Lynch gave the order and led by example.

  The sound of bodies hitting the platform put a speed in Fin that he never knew he possessed, nearly careening off balance as he sprinted to catch up to the soldiers.

  “We can’t go through town with those behind us,” Burke said. He looked back and for a moment Fin wondered if he would make good on his promise of shooting him in the gut, so they could get away. When he turned his attention back to the road, Fin could breathe again. The soldiers pulled ahead. The respirator was choking him, not enough air reached his lungs. He pulled it off.

  Fin heard Burke on his radio. “Compound go dark, no noise. Contact, contact.” Burke’s panting was out of pace with Fin’s gasping. “Train is compromised.”

  The snipers on t
he bridge all came to the side facing the train. Four of them took aim. Whatever they saw made Fin go cold: all of them lost their composure, two attempted to get down to the road, but there was no time, all they could do was trust in their barricades. Fin, Muirreann, Burke and Lynch ran beneath the bridge, none of them looking back now, there was no need to. Fin heard a crowd behind him. Burke did not need to shoot him, they were all much fitter than he was.

  The first shot from the sentries made him stumble. Weaving between the cars slowed their progress. A few seconds later he heard the infected crash into the vehicles. He gained a second wind knowing that the weepers could not navigate the traffic as well as he could.

  “Up the Greenway,” Burke said. “They’ll overrun the gates if we bring them back.”

  They ran up the steep tarmac walkway. Fin’s lungs burned, he tasted copper, the fringes of his vision blurred, but he was alive, stopping meant death.

  Gunfire still rained down from the bridge. Lynch turned, took a knee, a breath, then fired. The noise was like nothing he experienced in the movies. He covered his ears, ducked and ran on, hoping they would not miss.

  Lynch shouted something at him, but he did not hear it. Muireann and Burke were already gone.

  At the top of the hill he did not get a moment to catch his breath. Bikes lined the fences. Burke pedalled ahead of the three of them. Lynch was kicking off the ground for speed. They looked ridiculous in full uniform, pedalling mountain bikes. Fin picked the first one he came to, a heavy city bike, and regretted it instantly. Kicking off, the pedal spun around and struck the back of his leg. The soldiers on the bridge were still shooting, but now they were joined by gunfire throughout town.

  With the path steep enough that gravity kept most of his momentum going, Fin slowed down to catch his breath. They stopped in an estate at the end of the Greenway. Sweat pumped from his pores. Slumped over the handlebars, he rested his head for a moment, but fear of what he could not see brought him up again.

  The path was clear behind them. The soldiers were in a much better state than he was.

  “Where are we going? Camp or pier?” Burke asked. “Now’s our chance to go missing on patrol. I’ve a stash in the factory by the boat yard. It’s now or never.”

  “There are too many weepers,” Muireann said. “If they started following us, we couldn’t rely on help from the camp. By the sound of it, they’re already busy. I think it’s the wrong time to leave. Not now, we don’t know enough. What happened to Dublin? We’ll stay, clean up and then we can go on patrol.”

  Burke grit his teeth. “Fine, let’s be done with it so.”

  They don’t seem to care that I can hear them. That unsettled Fin as much as the infected. “Don’t mind me, the only reason I came back to Westport House was to get a lift out of here on the train. You do what you have to, means nothing to me, but I don’t want to stand around here. I have the keys for the hotel between here and Westport House.”

  They only noticed him now. “Those gates are sturdy, could draw them there and mow them down,” Muireann said. “Relieve the stress on the camp. How much ammunition do we have?”

  “One shot per person?” Burke mused. “Not nearly enough.”

  Muireann radioed it in to let command know. There was no response.

  “That hotel was compromised with infected,” Burke said. “That’s why we ignored it.”

  “There were only two of them, both are dead,” Fin said.

  “There were two others in the tunnel. Probably dead, Rev gave them suicide tablets,” Burke said.

  It bothered Fin that this distasteful man would think he would opt out so quickly.

  “Give me the key,” Burke said. He ripped it from his hand. “If you’re wrong, the last thing I do in this life will be to take yours.”

  Quietly, they crept along the road. Most of the weepers had been drawn off by the commotion in town. A few of the slower ones converged beneath a flagpole, lured by the sound of the rope slapping against the metal in the breeze. They were two buildings away from the gate of the hotel when the weepers that followed them along the Greenway spilled onto the street behind them. Their strangled weeping was made more inhuman by their wheezing.

  The weep of so many brought infected already in the area down on them. There were too many between them and the camp, there was not enough time to reach the hotel. The only option that remained was the factory on the pier.

  The passionless faces petrified Fin, blank as corpses. They moved like somebody had run an electrical current through a grave pit.

  “It’s your lucky day, Burke,” Lynch said. “Get to the pier.”

  They cut across the grass, out of rank, only thinking of themselves now. Burke headed for the road for better purchase. It cost him time and allowed a weeper gain on him, but he ducked and weaved out of reach. They can’t handle sharp turns. It careened face-first onto the road and was trampled by its kind.

  Fin did not look back, he knew the fast and implacable weepers were aiming for him, the slowest of the group. He was not sure if the tide was in. If it was, he would jump into sucking mudflats. A horrible way to drown, if the infected did not reach him first. Lynch and Muireann sprinted ahead. He cried out for them to wait, but he knew he was wasting breath, when he should be running.

  They turned left and ran past the shipyards towards an abandoned factory ringed with high metal fences. He made to follow them but it was too far, he could already sense the infected about to reach out and barrel into him. Burke made it to the factory and closed the gates when Muireann and Lynch passed through. Muireann looked back, but only spared him a passing glance. They disappeared inside. The infected now only had Fin to devote their attention to.

  The tide was out, so he ran for the sailing ships on stilts in the dry dock. He had never seen the place so empty. All of the seaworthy craft had been used by people trying to get out to the islands. Masts peeked out of the water beyond the pier wall, from ships that were not fit for use. He jumped for the railing of the first one he reached, but his foot slid off the side. Panicked, he ran to another. As he turned the corner, an infected slammed into the rudder he had just ducked under.

  He weaved through three lines of boats before he found one high enough to be impossible for the infected to climb. Arms outstretched, he lunged for the railing. The wind was knocked out of him, but he kept his hold, his meagre, remaining strength bolstered by fear and adrenaline. His feet skidded along the hull, barely finding purchase on the slick side, but he managed to lift himself high enough to hook an elbow over the rim and fall onto the raised deck.

  Weepers crashed into the ship and for a terrifying moment Fin thought they would cause it to fall from its perch, but the creatures had lost their momentum zig-zagging through the yard.

  Fin lay still on his back, not bothering to quieten his desperate gasps. He could not be heard over the sound of so many weepers.

  24

  Not Lost

  The weeping stopped during the night. Morning was still hours away. The rigging on the boat next to his kept the infected from wandering far. Cold seeped deeper into his body, to the point that he wondered if he would ever feel warm again. A small pillar of moonlight, shining through the port window, illuminated his fogging breath.

  There was no way of knowing if the soldiers were still alive. Throughout the night he heard distant gunfire, but it was too far off for it to come from the factory. Surely those things need sleep, or is it the lack of it that drives them mad? Does the blistering cold even bother them? Desperately thirsty, he tried to forget his lack of water by concentrating on how hungry he was.

  The radio in his pocket crackled into life with a whispered voice. “Fin, are you okay?”

  He held down the receiver. The battery was running low. “Rebecca? I’m glad you’re okay.” He begrudgingly took his finger off the receiver to let her speak but that caused noise. He turned the volume down lower.

  Relief was audible in her voice. “Where are you? What�
��s happening out there? It sounds like a warzone.”

  “I’m in the shipyard across from the hotel. In a boat called the ‘Not Lost’.”

  “Don’t leave us here,” George said.

  Fin laughed. “There’s no fear of that happening, it’s on blocks, there’s no propeller and no sails. What have you been doing?”

  George answered. “I was out walking the property. Can’t sleep. The street lamps still work, I wish they didn’t. We’ve seen a few infected walking past. None of them fast though. Are you safe where you are?”

  “No, I don’t think so. None of us are. The train from Dublin was riddled with infected. You should have seen it, the engine was painted with blood. Driver said every station he passed was full of them. They will follow the tracks and end up here. There are too many people in the camp, making too much noise. They will be overrun.”

  “How did you end up in the boatyard?” Rebecca asked.

  “The soldiers here were relying on reinforcements coming from the capital. They were preparing to leave. Wanted to train me up, dress me in a uniform and put a gun in my hand.”

  They were silent on the other end of the line before Rebecca spoke. “We were thinking of heading out to the islands.” There was no mistaking the cracking in her voice for static on the radio. “Tell us everything.”

  “George, you were right, I was put straight to work. So many people are still in their homes. How has the disease spread so fast?” He did not want to hear the answer to that.

  “Were you inside the house? What are their medical supplies like?” George interrupted.

  “They had people tied to beds and others that didn’t need the restraints. I was not paying much attention to be honest.”

  “George, what’s wrong with you?” he heard Rebecca ask in the background.

  The radio went dead and Fin could hear nothing. He called repeatedly, but stopped when he saw weepers turn in his direction.