The Hibernia Strain

by Peterson, Albert

  Their plan has worked, and the fate of the people inside is already sealed at this stage, there’s no escape for them. The time for heroics has come and gone.

  The two of us are still in the same position, unwilling to move and risk being discovered. All we can do is look on in silence.

  Unexpectedly, the front door opens wide and out walks a young girl holding a saucepan in her hand. It looks like she’s coming out to cook something on the fire. She’s no more than fifteen years old, and is looking back talking to someone as she walks. I can hear the faint sound of laughter from inside as she passes through the doorway. She doesn’t know what she’s walking into.

  12

  What have I done? Am I actually going to let this happen? I question it as though there’s a possibility of intervention now. I’ve made my choice, and it’s poetic justice that I’m forced to lie here and witness the consequences.

  Emma’s view of the unfolding situation is obscured by the dense vegetation we landed in, but I have a clear line of sight.

  The open door triggers a burst of acceleration from the horde and the whole scenario begins to play out in the only way it ever could have.

  My perception of time seems to slow down as the girl’s head swings around on hearing the approaching rumble of feet from all angles.

  I desperately want to look away and block out reality with some forced visions of my happy place, but the guilt gnawing at the base of my scull obligates me to watch as penance for my inaction.

  She manages to release the initial whimper of a scream before being rugby tackled to the ground and lost under the weight of five bodies. I hope it’s enough to kill her outright and spare her an existence as a spook.

  The rest continue straight for the hotel, held off momentarily at the open door by a man holding a semi-automatic shotgun. He seems to be shouting something out into the trees as he goes down.

  Did he see us? Was he cursing me for my self-preservation? I feel tears escaping from their ducts as I struggle to restrain the volcano of emotions inside.

  They persist on, attacking every window and door, climbing the walls and rotten drain pipes, anything to breach the structure. Their previous calculated calmness has being replaced in a flash by a coordinated viciousness unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

  With all the focus now on the hotel, this may be our best and only chance to get away. I’m weighed down by the guilt and self doubt from what’s happening, exacerbated further by the panicked shouting still coming from inside, but it’s now or never.

  I give Emma a nod as I begin to get up, but she pulls me back down firmly and directs her view upwards. Whilst I’ve been preoccupied with the hotel massacre, she’s been keeping an eye on something else from her vantage point in the undergrowth.

  I arch my neck carefully, and assisted by the half light of the fire, I can make out what Emma’s been looking at. Up a large tree about ten metres from where we are, there’s a small figure clinging to the trunk, paralyzed by fear. This must be who the man with the gun was trying to shout to before.

  My first thought is one of complete selfishness, as I consider the likelihood that we’ll be spotted by the little figure while making our exit, causing him or her to call out and bring the horde down on all of us.

  My second thought is, if anything more selfish, as I’m beginning to see this little person, whoever they are, as a means of some kind of redemption. Surely if I risk it all and save this last remaining member of the group I can redeem myself in some way?

  Before I know it, I’m off Emma and sprinting towards the tree. An over powering need to be away from this place has driven me to a hasty, poorly thought out course of action.

  Stealth and subtly have gone out the window. I’m working totally under the assumption that there’s too much happening in the hotel for my movement to be noticed.

  When I reach the tree I step onto a lower branch and reaching up with my right hand grab the scruff of the kid’s tiny hoody, and in no gentle way tear the child loose of their grip before hopping down and hitting the ground running.

  It’s apparent now that it’s a boy who looks to be about ten or eleven, although it’s still hard to be exact in the darkness. I was anticipating that the shock of being grabbed without warning would cause him to freak out thinking he was being attacked, but he seems almost catatonic.

  The only indication of life is the warm sensation of piss soaking into the arm of my jacket as I catch up with Emma, who wasted no time in heading back in the direction of the jeep.

  The jeep seems so much further away than I remember. My heart feels like it’s about to explode. The stress of carrying this kid coupled with years of living a generally unhealthy lifestyle has taken me to my limit.

  The sound of my clumsy movements through the woods are a distant memory, all I can hear now is the thumping of my own heartbeat. I’m about to drop to my knees when I see the sparkle of moon light on the shattered jeep window. Thank fuck!

  Despite the seriousness of our situation, I feel the need to maintain the illusion of control over myself and hide the fact I’m about to vomit from overexertion.

  I toss the urine soaked little fella into the back seat, before strapping myself into the driver’s seat.

  It’s a safe bet that we weren’t followed and are out of harm’s way, at least momentarily. I have to take a moment to let my heart catch up. I can see Emma watching with concern as I put both hands on the wheel and drop my head down between them. I haven’t done that much sprinting in a long time, or ever. I’ll be fine in a minute.

  “Shawn, are... are you ok?”

  I lift my head sluggishly to answer, only to be faced with the sight of Emma holding a tin of kidney beans that had been rolling around the floor of the passenger side. The scary part is she has a face on her like she’s about to cave my skull in with it.

  My reflex reaction is to reach out and grab the tin before she decides to use it. The second I see my hands out in front of me I cop on to what’s happening. I’m white as a sheet after the dash through the woods. I was on the brink of passing out. The state of me has her freaking out; I must look just like a spook.

  The little compartment light over our heads picks this moment to fade out, and the shock of sudden darkness triggers Emma’s commitment to her course of action. I see the silhouette of the tin raise slightly in prelude to the blow.

  I clumsily move to deflect her panicky swing, managing only to take the edge off it before the tin connects with a crack just above my left eye, followed by a rush of fiery pain.

  “What are ya at? It’s me ya fuckin idiot.”

  My loss of composure causes my accent to revert to that of my childhood, exposing my country upbringing.

  On hearing the enraged words I’ve spit her way, she leans back with a mix of relief and concern. She hangs back as I grab my head, double over and wait desperately for the pain to die down to a reasonable intensity.

  I feel the trickle of blood drip from between my fingers down the sleeve of my shirt. I fucking hate beans!

  “Shawn, I’m so sorry, I thought... it looked like...”

  The sorrow in her voice is genuine so I try hard to let go of my animosity.

  With my head still pounding, the best I can muster is to interrupt her in a quite obviously pissed tone.

  “Its fine, I’m fine, don’t worry about it. Just switch seats with me, it’s your place we’re meeting Matt and I’ve no idea where that is. Besides, I think I’m overdue some rest.”

  As she brushes over my crotch while shuffling across to my seat,any thoughts bordering on sexual are well and truly drowned out by my nowthrobbing head.

  Emma cautiously pulls out of cover onto the road. We’re back out in the open, back on the move with the cool summer night air smacking me in the face once again through the shattered windows of the jeep. This time it’s Emma’s turn to deal with only the one bent headlight and any psychotic boy racers we come across.

  The wee fella in t
he back isn’t saying a word; he’s just slumped against the pile of supplies, his face buried into the back of his seat. I’m in no shape to check on him now, especially as I just sat by and watched his family die without lifting a finger.

  “It’ll take about an hour to get home from here,” Emma informs me.

  I drop my head back. My body feels limp like a rag doll. When I said I needed some rest, it was an extreme understatement. I close my eyes and try and leave my guilt behind.

  The throbbing in my head grows to a deafening roar as my mind drifts to a dark place. The rattle of the jeep is a million miles away now, and all the crap swimming around my head takes its chance to bubble up and manifest itself in the form of a fragmented scene of me walking through the countryside of my childhood holding the little guy’s hand as we go.

  Our surroundings are distorting and shifting into something unrecognisable, as we make our way through this place. The warm nostalgic tones give way to a colder grittier landscape populated by remnants of horrific scenes.

  What’s left of his family litters the path stretching out in front of us along with countless other remains, their bodies cleared of flesh by the flames surrounding them. There’s no escaping the accusing stare of their empty eye sockets.

  The touch of his little hand against mine sears my skin, my guilt encasing both hands like a flame, climbing my arm slowly, threatening to consume me entirely.

  Emma’s been there the whole time, clasping my left hand with her right, a dented can of kidney beans in the other.

  I feel unexpectedly content, as we move onwards together, stepping over the flaming bones on our way forward, the perfect dysfunctional nuclear family for a post-apocalyptic world.

  After what seems like an eternity of further nonsensical raving, the random forms of my subconscious begins to coalesce into the sight of Emma’s face as I slowly open my eyes.

  “Shawn... SHAWN! Wake up.”

  She’s tapping me on the cheek as she tries to drag me back to reality, the morning sun over her shoulder blazes into the back of my eyeballs.

  “Wake up, we’re here.”

  By the sound of her voice, she’s been trying to rouse me for a while.

  “How long have I slept?”

  “About an hour and a half, I got a little lost on the way.”

  She looks surprisingly fresh for someone who’s been through all that shit. I can’t imagine she could say the same for me. I suppose ninety minutes of extremely disturbing sleep is better than none.

  I turn around to check on our passenger. He’s wide awake but his appearance is vacant as he looks back at me. I can only imagine what’s going on in his head. He’s about seven and his cap has Tomas written across it.

  “Hey Tom, how are you getting on back there?”

  I’ve always been terrible with children.

  “Are you hungry? There’s a twelve pack of chocolate bars behind you.”

  Not a peep.

  “You know you’re safe here with us, no one’s gonna hurt you.”

  I literally don’t know what else to say, so I stop before I make things worse. I’ll fix this once we get into the farmhouse and out of the open.

  So this is the farm. The motor is still running, barely, and we’re stopped at the end of a lane leading up a gentle hill to the house itself. We’re about a quarter mile away. From this distance we’re presented with one hell of a good view of the house.

  “Why are we stopped all the way down here?”

  She’s staring at the house as if it just gave her the finger. Without breaking her glare she says, “You see that red car peeking out from behind the house? That car shouldn’t be there, I’ve never seen it before.”

  I sit up and strain my bloodshot eyes to see what she’s going on about. Holy crap, what sort of eyesight does this girl have?

  Sure enough there is the merest protrusion of a red vehicle of some kind visible from behind the house.

  “Well, we can’t wait here for Matt, who knows how long he’ll be,” I stop short of adding, “if he’s coming at all?”

  “Let’s go up and find out what the story is. What other choice do we have?”

  We begin to pull off, there’s no argument. I reach for the pep pills again and throw a few in my mouth, something tells me I’ll need them.

  Once we’re within several metres of the gates Emma presses a key ring remote, triggering them to unlock and swing open automatically.

  We’re in the west of Ireland, as rural as it gets and on first glance, the house itself is similar to the countless farm houses dotted across the countryside. It has a generic stone facade with a scatter of old farm buildings around it, but as we pass through the gates into the yard it’s obvious that Emma’s parents are no farmers.

  My first clue is the large wire peacock sculpture in the centre of an immaculately kept garden. The outward appearance of the house from the road is extremely misleading; it looks like Emma’s parents gutted an old farmyard, preserving nothing but the outer shell for aesthetics.

  From inside the yard all I can see is the cutting edge of contemporary design. The clean geometric lines of the garden lead my eye to a vulgarly placed hot tub, upsetting what is an otherwise perfectly balanced garden design.

  Most of the smaller surrounding farm buildings have been converted also. Into what I’m not sure, but a glance in one window as we pass reveals well-furnished interiors and a pool table, instead of the pile of straw mixed with cow shite you’d expect to find in a typical farmyard shed. I better be nice to Matt if he gets back. If our old society manages to pull through he could be in the money.

  With a new wave of twitchy energy starting to wash over me from the pills I feel somewhat better equipped to process what’s going on.

  “So, what did you say your parents did again?”

  I could tell half way through my question that her attention is elsewhere.

  As if she didn’t even hear me, she bursts out with, “Who do these people think they are? This is my parents’ house!”

  I keep my mouth shut and instead shrug my shoulders. She seems agitated and setting her off is the last thing I want to do.

  As we slowly pull around the gable of the main house, the extent of the renovations becomes clearer. Practically the entire gable wall of the house has been replaced with a two story pane of double glazing, stretching from a sizeable ground floor open plan living area to a large skylight. The whole place reeks of Celtic Tiger boom time excess.

  My thoughts on the architecture are interrupted by a heavy thudded impact somewhere on the front of the car. I’m left looking over the hood like an idiot to see what hit us before we speed up sharply, and I hear Emma shouting in a panicked scream, “Fuck! Someone’s shooting at us!”

  Shit! She’s right. Before I know it, without thinking I’ve stretched back around to the rear seat, bundling Tom down to the ground.

  “Stay down Tom! Stay down ‘til I tell you to move!”

  With one hand still ungracefully stretched around behind me, holding his head against the back of my seat, I swing around to see can I spot the shooter.

  Either it was meant as some sort of warning, or they’re a really bad shot. The sensation of being shot at isn’t like in the movies; you can’t just shake off the fear, stand up and face your shooter like the untouchable action heroes I’ve seen so many times. The fear of a bullet shredding through my body at any given moment is a powerful one, so I’m not sure what to do other then stay down.

  Having said that, although it seems like a small calibre rifle, I don’t think this car door offers much protection. I place my face close to the window, trying to get a look up at the house towering above us.

  My answer comes as I see the guns muzzle flash from one of the first floor windows, right before a second shot smashes through the passenger window I’m looking out of. The bullet misses my head by centimetres, lodging itself in the fabric of my seat right between my legs.

  I pull away from the windo
w with a yelp of pain and grab my head with my left hand. The side of my face stings like a son of a bitch, it’s peppered with glass shrapnel and at least one or two pieces made it into my eye, punishing me with darts of pain whenever I try opening it.

  It’s all happening so fast but despite the shards of fragmented glass that have ripped into my left cheek and eye, I can’t help but think how much worse that could have been, as I check my crotch with my right hand.

  The shattering glass, coupled with my sudden movement and pain filled shouts, causes Emma to fumble the wheel and take out two ornamental bonsai trees. The last thing I feel are the shards of glass in my head being grinded into my skull as my head makes contact with the dash before my world goes dark with a flash of pink cherry blossoms.

  13

  The next thing I hear is Emma’s voice, “Shawn, can you hear me, how do you feel?”

  Good question, I feeling great actually. I don’t have any pain and as well as that I have a distinctly positive mind-set. I’m a bit groggy and my memories of recent events are a bit fuzzy, I feel... drugged!

  As I finally open my one good eye, I’m surprised to see I’m in what looks like a teenage girls bedroom, covered in pink frills, stuffed animals and what appears to be every boy band poster from the early 00s. It all seems so surreal.

  I also notice some new faces. Emma is standing to my left, with a bloody cloth in her hands, in front of a woman who I’d say is in her late fifties. She’s washing her hands in a bucket of water lightly coloured by blood, my blood.

  It would appear they did some work on me while I was out. I can see in my peripheral vision there’s at least one other person there but I can’t get a good look lying on my back like this, and I’m quite content to stay this way.

  I don’t remember closing my eyes again but all of a sudden I’m pulled back to the real world with, “Shawn! Are you ok?!?”