Paul thought Frank smiled, but he wasn’t sure. He also knew by now that if Frank had wanted him to have an answer, he would have replied. Frank, it seemed, didn’t make mistakes.
Apart, maybe, from losing his arm…but then, maybe that had been on purpose, too. Paul suspected that maybe it was.
“Up you go, buttercup…might need to get you a pair of trousers if this is going to be habitual…”
Paul didn’t think he was able to laugh anymore. He was wrong.
By the time they were both in the truck, Frank was wheezing again.
“You okay?” asked Paul.
“No. Not really…”
“We’re going to get there…” said Paul. He didn’t know why he was trying to reassure the big man. Probably lost on him, anyway. Maybe he was trying to reassure himself. God knew he could use a little reassurance…possibly some alcohol, too. But those days were gone, weren’t they?
“We will or we won’t,” said Frank. Paul felt him, his proximity, as the man rooted around under the steering wheel. He could feel the heat coming from Frank. The man was burning like the sun. It didn’t stop him doing what needed to be done, though, and mere seconds later the truck rumbled to life.
“You’d make a good thief, you know?”
“Used to be a car thief,” said Frank. He didn’t sound ashamed of it at all. More…wistful? “You know the easiest way to steal a car?” he asked.
“Pick the ones with keys in,” replied Paul.
Frank laughed. “Right. I forgot they teach you how to steal cars in copper school.”
“Teach you all sorts, Frank,” said Paul. “You’re…an interesting man…”
Frank’s laughter turned to thick, troubling coughing. After a while he settled.
“I’m just what I am…” More coughing. “Two things. Need a rest now. Keep the wheel straight, okay? Just go slow, low gear, and push whatever you need to push. I’m going to rest. There’s a needle in the bag. When you stop hitting things, I figure we’re going to be over the worst of it. Stick the needle in me then.”
“Where’s the bag?”
“Right beside you.”
“Where do I stick the needle?”
“In my heart,” said Frank. “Don’t miss, eh?”
“Shit, what?”
But Frank was gone, making wet rattling sounds. Even across the width of the cab Paul could feel the heat of him, the infection burning him up.
Let him rest. You can do this.
He thought about driving a truck blind across the M25. Thought about the man beside him, who was probably dying, and had just put his life in Paul’s hands without any question, any doubt.
Get over it, Paul, he told himself.
He wasn’t sure how to drive a truck this size. Figured it was probably similar to a car, but just more of it.
Frank’s dying, he thought. He’s dying, I’m blind.
So?
“So, drive,” said Paul to himself.
If you’re going to drive blind, better to be in a high cab, somewhere wide open, with nothing to worry about…
Pretty much what he was doing, right?
Didn’t matter what he hit, so long as he could move it. He thought he would probably be able to tell by feel, by sound, if he hit anything really big (like another truck…). Otherwise? Fuck it. This thing, rumbling away beneath him, felt like the biggest vehicle in the world right now.
He began touching things around him. Gears, where he expected. Pedals comfortable enough. He pushed in the clutch and figured out where second gear was. Keeping low, no slipping, he popped the clutch back and the great engine shifted tone and feel beneath him.
He was moving.
Don’t fucking stall.
He set out slow and steady, the cab jouncing a little, but the seat was cushioned and comfortable enough.
He resisted the temptation to mess with the steering wheel. All he had to do was head forward in a straight line. And push the cars out of the way.
He was gritting his teeth so hard he was hurting his jaw.
Relax, Paul. Like bumper cars. Big fucking expensive bumper cars on the M25…
Expensive didn’t matter anymore, though, did it? Ownership was irrelevant. It didn’t matter if he hit a BMW or a clapped-out old VW Beetle. They were all worth about the same, he reckoned.
He hit the first obstacle. Metal squealed, rubber shrieked against tarmac and Paul farted, suddenly, because though he’d been expecting to hit something, it still made him jump.
He started laughing and pumped the accelerator, gently, gently.
Something missing…something…he didn’t know what it was that he was missing. Just wanted to feel right. With one hand on the wheel, the other searching the cab, he kept pushing cars, big and small, aside. Kept the wheel firm, and rooted around with the other, trying to find that one thing that would make this really, really surreal.
He found it by accident.
The horn.
“Ready, rubber duck?” he said, still laughing, and pulled the horn.
It was the loudest thing he’d ever heard in his life. He pulled it again, then thought fuck it and kept it on all the way.
He had no idea how long it took to get clear of the wreckage of the M25, but he laid on the horn and the accelerator and laughed like a lunatic the whole time.
“Like a fucking boss!” he roared, laughing, hitting car after car. At some point he must have taken out the central reservation, too, but he was so giddy and so goddamn loud he didn’t even notice it.
Bam, bam…on and on, it seemed, forever, though it was probably only a few minutes, all told.
Then, nothing.
No impacts for a whole minute. He felt the big old truck hit dirt, rather than road, and thought maybe he’d better stop while he was ahead. Still grinning, he let off on the horn.
“We made it…” he said, over and over, his voice raw from shouting his triumph. He let the truck coast to a stop, then, finding the brakes, made himself jump again when the air blasted out.
The laughter had gone, but the euphoria remained.
“I just fucked up the M25,” he said to himself. A small giggle, but this time? No fear.
No fear at all.
Now? Now he didn’t have a damn clue where he was, how far from a road, another car, or even if he stood any kind of chance of living out the week.
But it didn’t matter anymore, because he wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t a victim.
He grinned, turned his head to the left to listen to his traveling companion’s breathing. Still ragged and hard, but the man was still alive. Out cold, totally, because if the horn hadn’t roused him, then nothing Paul could say would.
But the hypo? That’d do it. If Paul could find the guts to stick it in.
Do it, he thought. Do it, before whatever magic this is wears thin.
Paul nodded to himself. He knew he was right.
So he did it. Took the needle in his fist, figured out where he reckoned Frank’s heart would be, laboring beneath thick ribs (he’s a tank…his ribs’ll break the needle…but there’s magic in the air…magic…it’ll break…no it FUCKING WON’T).
“Magic!” Paul shouted and punched the adrenaline into Frank’s chest…
59
…and Frank woke.
Fuck fuck FUCK.
Woke with such a start he tore the needle from Paul’s fist. Burning with energy and awake like he hadn’t felt since being a young man, burning, but not because of the infection. Like waking from a nightmare straight into some kind of heavy cocaine trip. The only time Frank had ever dabbled with cocaine was when he’d poured a whole bag into a bullet hole in his leg.
This was like that…but without the dirty feel of cocaine. Like pure power in his veins..
Actually…in my heart, he thought.
“Thank you,” he said, looking at the blind policeman next to him.
Who would have thought a policeman would save his life?
Paul was jitt
ering, jiving. Like he’d take a shot himself. No, Frank told himself…it was adrenaline all right. Paul was high on destruction. Frank took a look in the large wing mirror, then grinned.
For a copper, he’d done a damn good job. He was all right.
Destruction, in a straight line.
With his good left hand, Frank pulled the needle from his chest and dropped the hypo out the window.
“Paul, you okay?”
“Magic, Frank…it was like fucking magic.”
“Okay, buddy. Good. You know what? We’re on a road. Looks like we’re pointing in the right direction, and the engine’s running anyway…what do you think? You up for a road trip?”
“Frank, good buddy, rubber ducky, I’m on it. Fucking convoy!”
“Yeah…”
High as a fucking kite, thought Frank.
“Yep. Let’s see if we can make some miles before the magic wears off. Okay? My magic went out the window with that hypodermic. Don’t know how long this shit lasts, but we might get a fair run before…well, either I pass out, or die.”
That sobered the copper, but only a little.
He’s all right, thought Frank again. For a copper.
Frank remembered the old naked guy who had a soft spot for this particular half-dressed policeman. Weighing that up against the fact that Paul had saved Frank’s life?
Frank figured he’d give the policeman the benefit of the doubt.
“Let’s go,” said Frank. “I’ll talk, you drive.”
Paul turned to Frank and smiled.
Benefit of the doubt, thought Frank.
Frank smiled back. The man was blind. The smile wasn’t for Paul, but for Frank. Either way, it felt good enough there on his face. He left it a while.
IX. Like a Dream
60
Dawn Graves lay on a hospital bed with her feet splayed like she was about to do a sit-up. She wasn’t. She couldn’t. She was about as heavy with child as a woman could get. Gravid, she thought. Good word. Sounded heavy.
The generator was running, pumping out light and heat, thanks to Greg Singer, a kind of half-baked “leader” of their little commune. He was a handy man to have around, for sure. He’d proven to be kind, thoughtful…
And, well…he’d got the lights back on. It was amazing the difference light made to the mood of the commune (if that’s what it was). Being able to cook hot meals, too. The freezers in the café were vast. They had food, light, water…considering the state of the outside world (already Dawn was beginning to think of the dust bowl outside the automatic doors as some place that was entirely separate from their home, this hospital) it was a small miracle.
The lights in the examination room weren’t overly bright. But then, they weren’t shining at Dawn’s face.
“You’re about four centimeters, honey,” said Debbie, the only nurse in their makeshift group. She was originally from Leeds, running south from gangs that had taken over her home city when the end came.
It was an odd kind of end. Not complete, but close enough. Yes, close enough, for sure. People had vanished, but there were plenty left. Many seemed overcome with something Dawn could only describe as bloodlust, like some kind of pandemic among the survivors.
Everyone had a story. Some plain, some not. But everyone had experienced the bloodlust in others, in some form.
And yet, everyone in the hospital seemed…normal?
Or a good approximation of normal, at least.
But their stories were so similar it was terrifying. The world, the dystopia that Dawn imagined, was really here. Everyone had a story. Every story had a kernel of horror. None worse than Priya, a young girl who’d escaped a little piece of hell in Peterborough. In some ways, her story had been the worst of all. But they all coped in their own ways, alone, or together.
Two days ago Priya had jumped from the roof of the hospital. Only three floors down, but headfirst?
It had done what she’d needed. No more pain.
Dawn, if anything, was one of the lucky ones. Her scars, compared to theirs, were minimal.
“Soon?” asked Dawn.
Debbie’s head popped up from between Dawn’s legs. She smiled, shrugged.
“Could be. Second or third child, I’d be getting Henri in. Birth’s usually quicker when your body’s accustomed to birth. For a first child, though? No way of knowing, but often, it’s longer. Where you are right now? I’d recommend a wander and a nice cup of tea.”
Dawn smiled back. She was scared, yes. She was uncomfortable. But her little baby was on the way and excitement overrode everything else.
61
Greg Singer was waiting outside for Dawn. He was smoking a cigarette in the hall. The smoking ban in public places was largely irrelevant now that 99% of the population had disappeared, but he put it out as she came from the examination room, anyway.
Debbie emerged moments later, and stood beaming, almost like she were about to become a grandmother herself.
“How you doing, young lady?”
Debbie patted Dawn’s hand. “She’s doing great,” she said with a broad smile, and left the two of them to talk.
Dawn watched Debbie down the hall a way, then sat next to Greg on a bench. She sighed gratefully as she took the weight off her back and hips.
Being pregnant wasn’t half as much fun as she’d hoped. Hell, getting pregnant hadn’t been that great, either.
“I’m getting there,” she said to Greg. “I don’t think it’s going to be long now. You want the details?” she asked, grinning.
“Nope. Just the gist is fine by me,” he said.
To his credit, he didn’t wince or run screaming, like Dawn imagined many men would at the mention of dilation and plugs and water breaking.
“I’ll spare you the blow-by-blow account,” she told him, laughing at his discomfort. “It’ll probably be today, tonight…in the morning at the latest.”
He took her hand in both of his, tender, but not overly familiar. “You’re in the best place, eh?” She didn’t mind him taking her hand at all. In some ways they’d all been thrust together, and they’d risen to it, embraced it. Embraced each other. Oddly, bickering, shouting…well, it just didn’t happen. Maybe later on down the line, thought Dawn. But for now? Possibly it was a kind of shocked politeness. Either way, the atmosphere in the hospital was better than she’d known in both her families—the one growing up, and the one where she’d married a bastard.
She understood Greg’s concern for her. He was thinking she was worried. Afraid, maybe. She was, but the anticipation was a great painkiller.
“I’m fine, Greg. Really.”
“You know I’ll do what I can.”
“I know. You’re all great. Really…”
“But? There’s a but in there, right?”
Dawn nodded.
“Just the bit after that worries me. Bringing up my baby in this world…this kind of after world…you know?”
“I know,” said Greg. Just a couple of words, and not reassuring at all. But really, what else could he say? She liked him even more, right then, for not taking the easy way out, not telling her it would all be fine. Because it wasn’t fine, and they both knew it. At some point, even the vast stocks of food would run down. People would be sick, their population would dwindle. The crazies might come—and there were plenty, all across the country, and maybe the world. There were questions unanswered, debates yet to be argued and fights yet to be fought.
Footsteps interrupted Dawn’s train of thought, and her conversation with Greg. Someone (heavy footsteps, like a man’s) was rushing.
“Dawn, Greg…you seen Debbie?”
The man’s name was Reggie, Dawn thought. She barely knew him. There were over fifty people living in the hospital now. She didn’t expect to be best friends with all of them.
Reggie, if that was his name, looked flustered. A little harassed, maybe.
“What’s up, Reg?” said Greg in his easy manner.
“Got word on th
e radio—two new people coming in. One of them sounds like he’s hurt pretty bad. Wayne’s after getting everyone organized, ready…just in case…”
“Bad way how?”
“Missing an arm, he said. I don’t know…sounds drastic to me.”
“Okay, Reg, I’m coming…Debbie went down the hall. That way…” he said, pointing down the corridor. There should have been some kind of internal communications system for a building this size, but Greg hadn’t been able to figure it out.
Dawn let go of Greg’s hand. “I’m fine,” she told him. “Don’t worry about me. If I see a baby peeking out, I’ll shout.”
Greg laughed.
Must be tough on him, Dawn thought, watching him go. Be the big guy and everyone wants a piece of you. She hoped he had big enough shoulders on him for the days and weeks…maybe, if they were lucky, years…to come.
But then, she thought with a wry grin, everyone might want a piece of Mr. Singer. The pregnant woman waddling about, though? Not so much.
She sat, feeling a little lonely, but kind of okay with her loneliness, too, knowing it would pass. It would pass very soon, and she’d hold her baby to her breast and everything, for a while, would be well.
62
Wayne Fairbright, the paramedic, waited before the doors to Accident and Emergency. He paced, back, forth, away from the double doors and then back again, like he was trying to get himself going for what might be a long night, up on the balls of his feet. Bouncing, getting ready for the big game. He saw Dawn and raised an eyebrow.
“Not yet, right?” It sounded light, but he couldn’t hide the fact that he was worried.
She understood, too. If the guy about to come in was missing an arm, and she went into labor at the same time…well, with a paramedic and a nurse and no one else with the slightest clue how to deliver a baby… simply put, she’d be all kinds of screwed, because the guy coming in would have to come first. She got that. She was okay with it. Not good, maybe, but okay.
Triage, she thought it was called—something to do with treating people depending on the severity of their injuries. She wasn’t, after all, injured at all. A guy missing an arm? She figured that would come first in anyone’s handbook. Worst-case scenario? She’d need a Caesarean, or a C-section. In which case, she’d be double-fucked, because who the hell would know how to do something like that?
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