Collins’ rifle clicks empty just when he needs it most, when he has the best chance to cover his comrades. Cursing himself, he swaps out the magazine as quickly as he can and aims the rifle again ready to shoot. He sees Kim hit and lose his footing before he is enveloped by the oncoming Rabids, and Collins blames himself for his mistake. He doesn’t dwell on it, not yet, and he fires his rifle.
Dixon is almost at the door when he registers Kim go down. He is sure he hears Kim’s deathly scream or is it just more of the Rabid’s sickening noise? Dixon anticipates his ghastly fate that is surely inevitable. Bullets fizz past his head, giving vital seconds and suddenly, he is amazed that he is at the door. He runs straight through it as Collins empties his magazine into the oncoming horde, giving himself critical time to pull the door closed.
Rabids smash into the closing door and actually force it shut with a bang, sealing off the entrance. Dixon has taken up a position with his rifle aimed at the door, as if he expects the Rabids to burst through. The heavy fire door holds easily and almost immediately, Dixon and Collins are surrounded by silence.
The two men look at each other in astonishment, wondering how the fuck they both survived; it’s surreal. Dixon especially is finding it hard to accept that he is still alive. He thought he was as doomed as Downey and Kim. He falls to the floor of the small alcove from his firing position and sits with his back against the wall, his burning legs spread out in front of him, panting, trying to get his breath back.
“Thanks, mate, I thought I was done for. I owe you a beer,” Dixon says, still panting.
“Fucking hell, Boss. I couldn’t help Downey, but I should have helped Kim. I lost it and shot my mag out at the fuckin’ wrong time.”
“Don’t blame yourself, none of us had any right to get out of that, mate. If it wasn’t for your covering fire, I’d be Rabid food right now.”
“I should have covered Kim, too,” Collins says, his head down.
“It’s a bad loss, they were two good men. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine, I led us on this wild goose chase. It’s gonna take some time to get our heads around it. You did your best, that’s all we can do, so head up, soldier.”
Collins makes a feeble effort to raise his head, but the guilt hangs heavy.
“Come on,” Dixon says as he drags himself up to his feet. “It’s late and I’m knackered. Let’s go and find Josh and a brew.”
Chapter 13
Wherever I am, as my consciousness starts to return, I forget. I only know that I’m not surrounded by the soft sheets and forgiving comfort of my bed at home. I know it because I’m slouched with hard surfaces below and behind me. Agony aches throughout my back which feels like it would shatter if I attempted to move. My bum is dead, paralysed by my position and pins and needles shoot up and down my legs as if shards of broken glass are swirling around in my veins.
There is no sound that might help me distinguish my location—or is the throbbing pain in my head applying pressure on my brain to block it processing the sound waves as it stifles my reality?
Something tugs on the tender skin on my cheek. I manage to turn my head an inch to try and move away from whatever cruelty is pulling at it. Moving only encourages their nasty game as the tugging increases, so I keep my head still.
I am afraid to look, to see what it is that torments me. If I open my eyes and they see that I am awake, what else could they have in store for me? I have to look though; I can’t avoid it forever. My eyelids twitch and try to open but they are stuck together as if they have been glued shut. I try again, the skin of my eyelids straining to pull apart, threatening to tear the delicate skin. It is impossible; they won’t open—has the skin grown conjoined, to stop me from seeing? I submit and rest, conserving my energy, waiting to see what they have planned next.
My right hand has hold of something, and my fingers move discretely around it, trying to discover what it is. The object is small and round, with a raised notch, a button. I press the button and my ears hear it click, proving that I am at least not deaf. The click rouses a memory, a memory of a torch I found on the floor, where I found a box too. Slowly, my mind starts to work again. The box contained syringes, syringes that I plunged into myself, to make me well again.
The torch and box were on the floor of Sir Malcolm’s bathroom. Concentrating, I slowly start to remember my circumstances. The Rabid slashing at my face and scratching my cheek; the beast infecting me. Later, waking up dazed and confused like I am now and shut in Sir Malcolm’s bathroom, alone. Despite my visions and nightmares, I remember that I was alone, so what the hell is tugging at my cheek?
Reality starts to gather in my mind, slowly, as my memory returns. The thought that I have been infected is hard to fathom, so why is my brain still working? My head moves unintentionally, and again something tugs at my cheek and wobbles. It takes some courage to lift my arm. I am still afraid, but have to find out what is toying with me. My hand raises and I ignore the shooting pain it causes. The hand feels for my cheek, it moves slowly, cautiously as if something might bite it. Gently, my fingers go in to touch but come into contact with something thin and round. My fingers take hold of the dangling syringe, the needle still embedded into the skin of my cheek, dried blood sealing it in. The body of the syringe is what has been tugging as it wobbled when my head moved. I pull at the syringe and at first, it resists, but then, with a twist, the needle pops free and I drop the syringe to the floor, hearing it clatter.
My arm moves again, rising further as my hand feels for my eye nervously, to see why it won’t open. Instead of feeling soft skin, my fingertips brush against something hard and crusty. The rough substance has encased the lower portion of my eye and it feels like sleep in your eye, that you can get when waking in the morning. This is on another level though, more like a hardened scab that covers an old wound.
I pick at the edge of the crust on the outside corner of my eye. My nail feels the edge of it start to slide under and lift away from the skin. It gets caught, however, my eyelashes welded into the hard substance and short of ripping my eyelashes out of the hard mucus, they’re stuck.
My arms drop back down and into my lap. The agony of keeping it raised for the operation is too much. The solution to my dilemma is obvious; water, I need water to soften the hard crust and wash out my eyes.
My head flops back, resting whilst I regroup and think some more. I have no idea how much time has passed since I was infected. Hours, days? I could have been unconscious for almost any length of time; my weakness tells me that much. If I have any thought of ever leaving this place, I can’t just sit here, rotting away. My eyes have already crusted over and my back feels like rigor mortis has set in. My legs and bum aren’t far behind my back and I have almost become accustomed to the pungent stink of faeces from below.
Am I dead yet? I don’t think so; am I dying from the fucking virus—possibly? If I remain here festering, will I die? Definitely. Definitely, so do something, you useless piece of shit, I tell myself.
You’re blind, decrepit and covered in shit, so what are you going to do? Think, man, how are you going to move forward?
Water is the first thing I need; if I’m going to move forward, I have to be able to see. I need to clean my eyes so that I can open them. I remember, behind the box of syringes, a bottle of water stood on the floor. I concentrate my throbbing head to envisage where I saw the bottle. It was on my right, but it will be out of easy reach. The bottle was behind the box of syringes that I only just managed to stretch to retrieve. My body aches but the pain isn’t as severe as it was before, I don’t think. Perhaps I can stretch further this time; what choice have I got but to try?
My right arm lifts from my side and I immediately think I was wrong about my pain levels. I persist though and force my hand out searching for the bottle. All it touches is fresh air, however. I try to force a smile at the term fresh air when I consider the stench I’m sat in, but my bone-dry mouth protests.
Agony rips up my
arm and into my back the longer my hand waves around in mid-air searching, and my arms drop as I’m forced to stop to rest for a moment. I go again, this time forcing my back to move and lean into it, using my left arm to push off from behind, to further my reach. My back cracks and creaks in agony as if it is a rusty old hinge, with every millimetre of movement. Still nothing, but I keep going forward, accepting the pain, my left arm levering me out. I brush something with my fingertips; it has to be the bottle.
My arm stops waving, now knowing where to go; I just need to lean out a bit more to grasp the bottle.
Racked in agony, I force my left arm to push me that little bit further, and it does. It pushes me too far, and my back tries to pull me back in but it spasms, unwilling to cooperate. Slowly, I tip further and further, about to fall; it is inevitable, just as the pain will be when I land. On the way down, I try to grab the bottle, not thinking about the fact that my body might shatter when it hits the hard, tiled floor. My hand doesn’t close quickly enough around the bottle, it knocks it flying. I hear the bottle hit the floor just as I bang into it.
For a second, I think that the fall wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. But then cold, aching, excruciating pain waves up and down me. How many bones have I broken? My right arm tried to catch at least some of my fall; surely it must have shattered?
The right side of my face is flat against the tiles with my right arm stretched out behind my head. In my holster, the handle of my knife below me jams into my ribs. A glugging sound is also coming from behind my head as the knocked-over bottle empties its contents. The top couldn’t have been on it. Just my luck, I think to myself as I lie contorted on the floor, wincing.
To my surprise, my pain levels drop quite quickly. Every part of my body still aches but it isn’t in agony, not by the standards I have become used to. The weight has also been taken off my bum, and I feel the blood start to return to it--a small relief but I’m taking it as a win.
My hand rests on something and I feel around to find a few cellophane packets of what must be food. I reach back and forth, further around, hoping to find another bottle of water. But in amongst the other stuff, there are no more bottles, just more packets and boxes. If only I could open my bloody eyes. I try again to pull my eyelids apart and fail miserably.
Okay, next plan of action, I think to myself lying there and then the obvious answer dawns on me. Situated behind the door of Sir Malcolm’s private bathroom is his shower. It’s virtually next to me. Surely, I can drag myself a few feet to it, reach up and turn on the tap? The thought of a nice warm shower is bliss and nobody could argue that I don’t need or deserve one.
The thought is bliss but there is no chance in hell that when I turn the tap, I am going to be greeted by welcoming torrents of warm water. If I can make it, it’s going to be a cold shower for me. The building's power is out which means the boiler won’t work, which means no hot water. I will take a cold shower, welcome it, anything to be able to see again and wash away the stink. It’s not as if I haven’t had plenty in the past while on duty, sometimes under the stars. Once you get over the initial shock, they are very refreshing and invigorating, I kid myself.
I get my body into position to slowly start the pain-stricken, arduous task of pulling myself across the floor, in what I am sure is the direction of the shower. My muscles burn and protest fiercely and my joints creak, rubbing together like sandpaper as I go. The grimace on my face is fixed as is the determination. My legs are still dead, useless, and follow my body on a free ride as my hands and arms manage to do the work. Eventually, the shower door rattles in its runner to itself as I touch it. My sense of direction hasn’t failed me, and I pull at the bottom of the door to roll it back. The small ledge up into the shower is tricky but soon mounted and I turn over and grab whatever I can to help me sit up so that I can pull my legs in.
Sitting with my back against the back wall, I rest. Could it be that using my body has loosened it up a bit? The trip hurt, that’s for sure, but it could have been worse.
I try to remember where the tap to the shower is. I haven’t been in this bathroom many times and barely took any notice of the shower cubicle. With a creaking back, I reach above my head, to find the tap.
Before I turn the tap, I prepare myself for the onslaught of cold water, ensuring my body knows to expect the assault. Nevertheless, my body goes rigid with shock as the water starts to rain down. My clothes give me some protection at first, but they soon soak through as the water penetrates through to my skin.
Almost immediately, I put my head back and rest it onto the wall behind me, allowing the water to splash directly onto my face and crusty eyes.
A loud crash reverberates into the bathroom, from one of its outside walls. The shock makes me jump, my head springing upright as if to look what is going on. All I see is darkness and panic grips me. The noise from the shower has alerted the Rabids to my presence. Visions of them bursting through the bathroom door play across my closed black eyelids and my panic grows.
My hands come up to my eyes as fear flows through me. I put my head back again and my knuckles rub the water into my eyes, desperately trying to wash away the globules of sleep. Another crash is followed by muffled screeches and then another crash. Are they coming through the wall? I keep rubbing, massaging the water into my eyes. Taking my hands away. I urgently try to open my eyes and feel the corner of my left eye pop apart slightly. I rub again, encouraged that it is working. I can feel the hardness of the crust start to soften. I go to open them once more and both eyelids do prize apart. My eyelashes linger, stuck in the goo but I persist, straining to get my eyes open. Gradually, the eyelashes slide free and at last, my eyes are open.
Darkness still fills my vision though, and for a moment I think that I have lost my sight. My hands wash the last of the residue away in the hope that will bring my sight back, but it doesn’t. More crashes and screeches sound out and in a futile act, I slide my Sig out of its soaking wet holster, ready to defend myself. I don’t even know if it is loaded, I can’t remember—and I don’t fancy my chances of hitting a headshot when I’m blind.
The feel of my trusted weapon in my hand brings with it reassurance and my panic subsides a bit. Enough to let my brain work at least and realise that I haven’t lost my sight. The room is in pitch darkness, I think?
At least my sudden panic has taken my mind off the shower’s cold water, which actually isn’t that cold. The commotion outside the bathroom continues but I just sit there waiting for something to happen and letting the water wash over me.
The Rabids don’t burst in and eventually they settle down, obviously having gotten used to the new noise of running water.
After a time, I realise that they aren’t breaking in and my guard starts to drop. I put the Sig down and start to undress. The process is a struggle and painful. My muscles have relaxed more as my skin has soaked up the water, but my joints haven’t; they are still in turmoil with every movement. I place the important pieces of kit close by, just outside the cubicle, like the Sig’s holster and my body armour. All the clothes I am wearing, however, I throw as far as I can out of the shower. Especially my soiled trousers and underwear, which were a nightmare to get off, as were my boots.
Finally undressed, I have one more thing to try before I can fully relax for a while. I have been afraid to try it in case my body rejects it but I can’t put it off any longer if I mean to carry on. My head leans back, and I open my parched mouth to allow water into it. My dried-out tongue tells me immediately that the water is welcome as it soaks it up like a new sponge. The water slides down my throat and into my stomach like nectar, and it feels amazing. I drink in the most refreshing water I have ever had, even though it is travelling through pipes that are not meant to carry drinking water. I have to stop myself from gorging myself, a few gulps are all I allow myself. I have to take it easy and see if the water will settle into my infected body.
That done, I lower onto the floor of the shower, again
taking the pressure off my bum. I curl up on my side and let the shower do its job, thinking how pleased I am that the water is staying put in my stomach.
Dozing on the floor of the shower, but not sleeping, I am still aware of the water washing over me and the sound of the shower. I think about the horrors of the last few days. The carnage is brutal and horrible to remember, and I can’t help playing it back in my mind. The blood and guts stain my thoughts and are hard to escape. Friends and colleagues butchered, many in front of my eyes, fill me with sadness and guilt. Especially Dan, my best friend, he could have made his excuses and got the hell out of Dodge. Instead, he was by my side until the end, fighting my fight and always with a smile on his face. I don’t feel the tears I shed for him; they simply join the water raining down on me to be washed down the plughole as if they were never there.
Minutes pass and my thoughts threaten to overcome me. I have to suppress them and change my train of thought. Rolling onto my back, under protest from my body, I open my mouth again to let some water in. After a few gulps, I roll onto my other side, determined to think ahead and not back. Getting comfortable, I control my thoughts, making myself concentrate on what I am going to do next despite my tired head.
A chill shudders through me, waking me. I must have drifted off to sleep. Thankfully, almost immediately, I remember where I am for a change. I shiver again, the water is pulling my body temperature down. I have no idea how long I have been here, but it’s time to get out.
I manoeuvre myself and sit back up. My body is still hurting all over, but I think—hope--it is improving. I look at my wrist in a hopeless attempt to see what the time is. My military-grade watch’s hands have lost all of their luminosity, useless. If I couldn’t feel the watch around my wrist, I wouldn’t know it was there. How long have I been in this room, I wonder to myself?
Capital Falling (Book 3): Resurgence Page 13
