by Brady, Eoin
When the pasta was finished, he strained the water from the pot into a hot water bottle. He mixed in herbs, a jar of sauce and a tin of tuna. Fin was terrible company during dinner. His mind was in the back room. He wished he had stayed longer to observe the bodies. Were they bitten? Had he murdered them? He tried yawning a few times to pass his behaviour off as tiredness.
Before going to bed, Malachy applied muscle pain pads and creams to his back. “One good thing about that climb is it helps me sleep. That and the drink. Help yourself to more. There’s plenty. Goodnight.” He picked up the cold bowl of pasta for Liz. “The blankets are set up there for you. Sorry I don’t have any more hot water bottles, this is for Liz and the baby.”
Maybe he does not know. “What you’ve given me is more than enough.”
“Thanks for the help today.” He went into the back room with the bodies, only slightly closing the door behind him.
Fin listened to his hushed voice while he settled down. “Don’t stay up too late, love,” he heard Malachy say.
Fin wrapped himself in a couple of blankets and slid down the wall beside the door. He opened a naggin of whiskey and lost the cap in the folds of his bedding. He did not need it.
Malachy returned. “I’m just going to put the candles out now. Are you set for bed? Can’t really waste much these days.”
“Goodnight.”
Malachy stopped walking in the darkness. “It’s our first child. I read about the sleepless nights parents suffer. I had my fingers crossed the whole nine months that ours would be one of the quiet ones. But you can’t be lucky in all things. The last time that I was not woken by her crying was when I was trapped by infected. The whiskey was sorely missed then, I can tell you.”
The thought that this insane man heard the crying of a dead baby made Fin’s blood run cold. Maybe reality manages to reach him in his dreams, so he drinks to stop those. Fin raised the bottle to his mouth, but stopped. He would have swallowed the whole thing to feel numb, but he feared being senseless around this man. With reduced inhibition he would likely try to walk down the mountain in the dark. Malachy seemed harmless, but so had Dara.
Considering he had not slept the previous night, Fin hoped that exhaustion would be enough, but he could not switch off. The wind picked up and whistled around the church. It sounded like the wailing of the banshee. Fin’s body rippled with goosebumps as he heard Malachy shushing his child back to sleep.
Wondering if a few blankets wrapped around him would be enough, Fin stumbled through the void towards the door. He opened it as quietly as he could, stepping out into the crisp clear night. The stars were astounding, but the cold robbed them of their appeal. Beyond the shelter of the church, the cold nearly brought him to his knees. He knew without doubt that leaving now would be his end. Over his shoulder he saw the silhouette of Malachy standing in the doorway. Fin fought against the wind and his fear, back to the church.
31
No Sleep for the Living
“Some stars, eh?” Fin said.
Malachy was silent for a moment, before moving out of the doorway. “You must be daft heading out there. I should have said, if you need to piss, there’s a bucket in the confessional.” Malachy returned to the back room and left the door slightly ajar.
Fin found his naggin, the raw whiskey burned as it went down. After a quarter of the bottle, it started to warm him. Once it took the edge off the fear, he put it aside. While Malachy snored, Fin stayed awake and wondered how the infection spread. Was she bitten? No, there was a lot of blood, she gave birth up here. Do the dead rise like in movies? It takes a lot to walk, never mind run. They weep when they see others, severe brain damage then.
Eventually, exhaustion overcame him and the darkness diffused into his mind, blanketing his worries. He passed out with the disturbingly comforting thought that if they did turn, then Malachy would be attacked first. His screams would give Fin enough time to sneak out. He would have to fumble blindly for the lock and latch, then hope that the night and cold would not kill him.
Fin was woken by Malachy opening the zipper of his sleeping bag. The squeal of the metal made him tense. Malachy quietly closed the door to the room where his wife and child lay, as if trying not to wake them. He stretched; Fin heard his back crack from the other side of the room. He shuffled to the stove on the altar. Fin rubbed at his face to shake the tiredness off, but exhaustion hung on him like a second skin. Already fully dressed, he got out of his bundle of blankets.
“How did you sleep?” Malachy asked. His breath frosted in the air.
“Like the dead.”
Malachy gave him a weird look but made no remark. “Would you like tea, coffee or a dissolvable multivitamin? It’s tropical flavour.”
“Vitamin tablet, cheers.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“There’s not a hope that I’m going back to the island on the board.”
“What about your friend?”
“She has it in her head that the child will come back. Do you know anything about the people that lived out there?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. Though common sense would tell you, that child will never return.”
“I’ll go back to our safehouse and wait for George, use his radio to let her know that I’m alive.”
“You could always use the spare paint I have lying around and write it beside my SOS signal.”
“Tempting.” Fin smiled at the thought of Rebecca waking up to read a message from him on the side of a mountain. How can you act so normal? I’m sorry for you. At times, Fin wondered if he saw the strain of reality age Malachy’s face. “I saw on the news that the military used helicopters to lure infected away. If they’re dropping supplies into Westport House, we might see the end of this soon.”
“Don’t be so flippant,” Malachy said. “There won’t be an end to this, not for our generation. In decades to come, they will have articles on the old survivors of the epidemic. I tell you, what a time to be a practicing psychologist, they’ll be capitalising on this trauma to be sure.”
He might be mad, but he’s not bad. No grieving. Maybe he’s forestalling his grief until he can indulge in it afterwards.
“We’ll have two torches on as we descend, at least that way your friend Rebecca can assume you made it and have joined this odd little constellation that everyone puts so much stock in.”
“Mock it all you want, but seeing your lantern on the mountain gives people hope. At the very least they are not alone – others will live on. To some, that’s all the hope they need to make dying easier.”
“It shouldn’t be easy. You fight for the morning after, for a glimpse of sun, a free breath. Fight for the sake of fighting. Find something worth dying over and then strive to live for it.”
“What have you found?”
“Them in there. My wife is the soul of every moment I have worth remembering and our girl will be at the heart of every good feeling I have from now on. Life should not be something to give up easy, it’s all we have.”
“Do you want me to mark out where we are staying on your map?” Fin said. “Just so we don’t hear you rifling through our bins.”
“Fire ahead, map’s on the altar.” He pointed at a cylinder of rolled up paper beside the stove. “I’ve spare gear in the other room, take a scarf, gloves and hat. A jacket could just save your life.”
The cords on the jacket were all taped down. “I’ve a friend you’d get on well with,” Fin said, thinking of George’s meticulous attention to detail.
Malachy poured out three cups of water and popped an effervescent tablet in each.
“Thank you.” Fin drank his in two gulps.
Malachy unfurled the map. “Anywhere with a strike to it, I’ve been to.” He opened a marker and crossed off a few more houses. “That was yesterday.” He was compulsive and thorough in his search. Fin tried to memorise it for George’s own map, so they would not waste time.
All those black crosses over houses an
d estates gave Fin pause. So many lives altered. “This is us here.” Their peninsula was still untouched by him. Fin took the pen and circled the general area where their hideout was. “If we’re going to be neighbours, we could pool our efforts.”
“Sounds like a crowd,” Malachy said. His tone was jovial, but his meaning was not lost. “Back at it again.” Malachy let go of the map and let it curl in on itself. He put two empty bags on his back. “We’ll have a few cereal bars for breakfast on the way – I like to get down as fast as possible. Can’t waste what little light there is in the day. Here,” he threw Fin a hiking stick, “you’ll need it for going down.”
Fin dressed gratefully in the offered winter gear and opened the front door. It was like stepping through a portal to another planet. Clouds completely obscured the land below. He could only see the ground a few feet in front of him. It was serene and beautiful. He stood and watched while Malachy got ready. The cold woke him up more than coffee would have. His nerves felt like fuses, a night in the church had shortened them.
Fin’s head swam from lack of sleep, dulling his senses like a hangover. While waiting outside for Malachy to say his farewells to his family, he remembered a dream that woke him during the night. Liz staring down at him, her expressionless face like that of a weeper. Each time Fin moved, she matched and countered. All he could do was remain still and stare into those dead eyes. Even though he knew the infected could not easily make the climb, he imagined walking into a group of them in the low visibility. Each breath was crisp and damp, submerged in clouds, so thick he could only see the church as a silhouette after walking a few feet from it.
Fin sought shelter at the side of the building. He checked on the suicide pills the captain had given him back at the hotel. One for him, the other for Rebecca. Carefully, he broke the perforated edge and pulled them apart and put one back in his pocket. Fin bit his lip to stop it from quivering. During the bleakest parts of the night he fumbled with the idea of the pills. Had it not been for the phone calls with his family and knowing they were safe with Solene, he would have considered taking one. They were dangerous to have; a quick and – he hoped – painless solution. One with a swallow of whiskey and that darkness would become permanent, minus the cold.
The temptation was incredible, the thoughts invasive and starting to make sense. It was like a craving he knew he would likely indulge. I don’t want to die and I don’t want my family to find out that I just let myself go out. Nothingness did not scare him as much as thinking about what it would do to his loved ones. It must be too easy to do it in countries with access to guns. Put a bit of pressure on a trigger and it’s over. Leaves little time for consideration.
The church door closed and Fin heard it lock. Malachy came out with two lamps, their light considerably tarnished now that he knew what was inside the church. “Have you ever just wanted to scream?” Fin asked.
“I’ve done it a few times.”
“Did it help?”
“No.”
“I have something for you.” Fin held out the small silver plastic packet. “It’s for taking if something bad happens. It’ll make it quick.”
Malachy made to give it back, his expression stern. “No.”
“It’s a gift. You’re the man up here collecting everything just in case it might have a use. This might. Keep it.”
Malachy’s hand stayed awkwardly out with the tablet resting on his palm. He closed his fist around it. “There are only a few moments when this feels real,” he said. He let out a long breath. “That was one of them.”
There was no talking as they descended. Once moving, Fin could focus on his footing. It did not matter what they were going into, walking did wonders for his mind. Loose rock went from beneath his feet and he fell on his back a few times. Now he understood why Malachy had so much pain relief medication.
The silence was ruptured by the distant sound of an explosion that rolled across the land. They stopped to listen. There was nothing for a few moments and then the growing hum of a heavy machine.
“That’s a helicopter,” Malachy said. He set off quickly down the mountain. He slipped a few times, but used the momentum of the skid to move faster down the scree. Fin tried to keep pace, but his self-preservation would not allow it. Malachy vanished in the cloud.
The residing thought with the helicopter coming closer was that this might all be over. He nearly ran into Malachy. Beneath the clouds he could see just how ugly the sky looked; broody grey, with the promise of a wet day ahead. It was the search and rescue helicopter from Westport House. It kept low over Clew Bay, heading towards the Atlantic. Malachy was not looking at it, his gaze was on the town. Fire and smoke rose from somewhere close to the quay. It could only be the survivors’ camp. “What the hell is going on?” Malachy said.
All hope at seeing the helicopter disappeared. “What could have caused that explosion?”
“Sabotage. Mutiny.” Malachy shrugged. “Only thing keeping those soldiers in line was habit. That was no fire, sure, we heard the blast all the way out here.”
Another smaller explosion tore through the air, black smoke curled up from the grounds.
“Should we help?” Fin knew the answer before he asked.
“Not a chance. What are we to do? How far do you think that sound travelled? Every infected within earshot will be riled up and heading that way.”
The sound of the helicopter dwindled as it passed from sight. Not all of the soldiers could fit on it, if they were even the ones on board. He wanted to know what happened but was starting to believe that ignorance would keep him alive much longer than satisfying his curiosity.
“I’ll not be heading down today,” Malachy said. “You’re welcome to stay above with us.”
Fin had no intention of ever returning to that place. “I need to go back to my friends. We made a promise to look out for each other.”
“Well at least you know we’re here. Remember, if you don’t see the light for a few nights, will you try to get people up to help my girls?”
“I promise, I’ll take care of them,” Fin said.
“Good luck.” It did not seem like the handshake of a mad man. Though he did not like to use that label. How sane can anyone be these days?
“I hope you’re not up here too long.” Fin said.
“We’ll have a pint when this is over.” Malachy walked back up the slope, disappearing in the low cloud. Fin wanted to take the hike slowly, but he knew the roads would now be filled with the infected. He could see a few bodies moving on the road below already.
Near the base of the mountain, Fin stooped to wash the sweat from his face in a marshy stream, before putting his mask on and trying for the coast. There were too many places to hide near the houses, he did not want to surprise a group of the infected. Instead he hopped the walls of gardens and moved hunched and slow through them. He watched the zombies shuffle past the roads, all heading towards Westport. Cold morning dew soaked his trousers, but he was sweating from the climb and close proximity to death.
He made it to the coast without incident. The only prints in the sand were his old ones that led back to his board. Cold water drove the breath from him. He waded out to his waist before kneeling shakily on the board. He paddled a few feet from the shore before standing up. The fear of falling in again robbed him of all confidence, and he made slow progress. Looking back at the mountain, he knew he would not risk his life to return, should the light stop. When this mess ends, if you are gone, I will bury those bodies. If I survive.
He watched a few infected trapped in wet mud. Cows had lured them, but they did not have the sense to find their way out of the field. Weepers, hearing the sound, rushed those standing at the gate. They fell in a mass of biting, clawing bodies to be caught by the mud. Maybe they’ll destroy themselves. He thought of some of them being preserved in bogs and coming out in a few decades. Our myths, lore and legends will be changed.
Hiding out of sight until he was sure they forgot abou
t him, Fin continued towards their peninsula. By the time he reached the back of their safehouse, he was wrecked. He hauled the board above the wave breaker stones and left it in the garden. They had no way of barricading the grounds of the house without making too much noise. Their only hope was that infected would be drawn to Westport and just stumble past their lane. The gate would be enough, so long as they made no noise. A disturbing thought was that they might stay idle, like anemones, waiting for food to come to them.
George had outdone himself. The safehouse looked so imposing it gave Fin pause before approaching. The windows were marked with rusty handprints that smeared and dragged across the glass. The ‘Dead Inside’, written with Christmas snow spray, which would have looked cartoonish as Halloween decorations, seemed fitting now.
He had no way of letting Rebecca or George know he was coming in, if he knocked and there was something on the road, it would only attract it. The key was where George had left it. Inside, the kitchen was destroyed. The fridge door hung open, food inside left to rot, a putrefied smell perfumed the lower house. He wished he was not so accustomed to the smell of death to know that this was not it, but it might turn away a wary looter, if the warnings were not enough.
The loft was empty. He replaced the board over the entrance and tucked blankets and folded bed sheets over the edges to muffle any sound he made and to block the smell from downstairs.
He threw his new clothes in a pile. A drop of blood darkened the bandage on his stomach. The skin underneath it was red, and warm to the touch. He washed the wound out at the sink and swallowed a few of the antibiotics Malachy had given him. Going through the cupboard he found ointment and smeared it on the scab that had torn either from overreaching when he slipped on the mountain, or while on the water.
Collapsing into bed, he pulled the blanket over his head. His breathing slowed and he sank into the growing warmth. He slept, or at least did not think for a few hours, until startled by a blaring alarm. Fin fell out of bed and fumbled beneath the pillow for the hammer he placed there.
