Geri sighed heavily. Tom wasn’t addressing her as an individual, instead using her as sounding board for whatever life he was leading online.
“Tom,” she tried once more, trying to focus him away from his computer, back to reality, “The door...”
But a sudden beeping noise had the old man transfixed. “This is it!” he beamed. “He’s sent it through!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ballynarry, County Armagh
The documents in the file Ciaran found told a story which might have been quite unbelievable, had he not witnessed the outbreak—and the government’s attempts to deal with it—first hand. Previously, he would have thought the file to be the stuff of kooky conspiracy theorists. Today, it was something to cling to, a reason for everything that was going on and, more importantly, someone to blame.
In this instance, it was a laboratory, hired by the UK government to create a new strain of the flu virus. It was to be a distraction to recent bad press on expenses and an illegal war, a way the government could prove its relevance to people against a backdrop of corruption and collusion.
The documents Ciaran found on the computer spelled it all out.
They were trying to create a pandemic, a viral outbreak that would prove deadly to some, yet treatable for most. The flu would cull the older and more vulnerable populace, viewed by some officials as a drain on state welfare. The government knew the remaining populace would turn to them for help, and they would handle the situation admirably, primed with the resources to do so: inoculations, anti-viral treatments, those yellow fucking surgical masks and glossy self-help guides.
But something went wrong.
God knows, something went very wrong.
And these documents, these memos fingered every last bastard to blame for that.
Ciaran scanned everything into the PC as instructed by the man called Uncle Tom. He wasn’t sure if he could trust this guy, if the user group was legit, but he didn’t have much choice. There was too much at stake. And there was no way he could hold onto this information himself, given his present state of health.
Ciaran uploaded the scanned documents to the group. A reply came back almost immediately from the man he’d been talking to.
GOT IT.
Ciaran took a breath, grateful the generator hadn’t given up before he’d uploaded the docs.
He could hear a sound at his door, a banging, and wondered if it was Colin, risen from the dead. Or if maybe Vicky had found some way to pull herself back onto her feet and get revenge.
Not that it mattered.
Ciaran thought about the growing number of dead outside. His own mangled body. The strong possibility that the stinging sensation in his neck was nothing to do with his fall onto the kitchen floor and more to do with Vicky’s long, sharp fingernails.
Polish Ron came into his head. The girl he’d met in the pub on the day he’d enlisted. How they had both been gunned down simply because a man wearing stripes deemed it the right thing to do.
He thought about his mam too, hoping against reason that she was still somehow alive down in Newcastle.
But, even if she were, Ciaran wouldn’t want her to see him like this.
He was finished.
He returned to the screen. There were no more messages. But Ciaran typed one himself:
POWER ALMOST GONE. SIGNING OFF. GOOD LUCK.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Waringstown, County Down
Geri watched Tom as he beavered away on the printouts, oblivious to her. He was muttering to himself, circling bits of text in red pen, his random swears a mixture of delight and anger.
She left the old man to it, attended to Lark. She was beginning to worry that the tattooed man’s sweating and nausea wasn’t just the result of the ever-increasing stress to his body. That old Tom might be right: Lark was infected.
His sneeze confirmed her suspicions. Geri winced as it soaked her face.
With shaking hands, she pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped the bloody snot from her face.
“Lark?” she called, running her hand along his brow. It was red hot.
His eyes opened.
“Jesus, you’re sick,” Geri said.
Lark pulled himself up, spitting a bloody gob to the floor of the bedroom. “First time anyone’s ever called me Jesus,” he said, offering a smile.
Geri buried her face in his chest.
Lark gently placed his hands around her. “Careful now,” he said. “I hear this shit’s infectious.”
Another beeping noise from the computer. Old Tom looked up from his papers, staring at the screen. He reached for his mouse, clicking on the user group icon.
There was a message from Agent 13.
Tom looked to the other survivors, confusion etched across his face. “What the hell,” he said. “Agent13 is dead, right?”
“If you mean that twat, Willis, then sure,” Lark said. He looked to the cage in the corner where the dead parrot still squawked and fluttered like some broken toy. “Henpecked,” he added.
Tom turned back to the screen, still baffled. “Well, who the hell’s this, then?”
The answer to his question appeared on screen.
MY NAME IS MILES GALLAGHER AND I WANT TO HELP YOU.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Gallagher!” Tom spat. He pulled back from the screen. “Damn it, he’s infiltrated the group.”
“Who’s Gallagher?” Geri asked.
Tom was shuffling through more papers piled under the computer desk. “He’s a fucking goon, that’s who he is!”
Geri looked to Lark.
The tattooed man shrugged. “I think that’s paranoid geek speak for ‘military’”, he rasped.
Another message came:
HEAR THAT SOUND?
The three survivors were quiet, all straining their ears for some unknown noise. Eventually, a faint buzzing noise bled in from the sky. Geri looked to Lark, then to Tom. Even Brina got in on the action, raising her finger to the still-squawking dead bird in the cage, whispering, “Shhhh!”
“What is it?” Geri said, but Tom shushed her. “It’s a helicopter,” Lark said.
Geri looked to Tom, then to the screen.
She pushed him aside, went to the keyboard. “What does this Gallagher want?” She said, typing the question. The reply came within seconds:
I TOLD YOU. I WANT TO HELP.
“Bastard!” Tom cried. “No one needs your help, fucking goon!”
There were tears in the old man’s eyes. Geri could only guess that the reality of losing his friend, before they’d even met, had caught up with him. Tom was mourning Willis, transferring his grief into anger and blame.
She looked to Lark. Watched as he picked up the handgun, released the magazine, checked for bullets. Her heart sank. She really couldn’t deal with any more of that. The running, the shooting, the hiding.
She looked to Brina, sitting by the birdcage, making faces at the dead parrot.
She recalled what Willis had said: the military, this Gallagher person, they planned to runs tests on Brina. Draw an antivirus from her blood.
Geri didn’t know how that would work, what would be involved.
A dull feeling of guilt crept into her chest.
Tom was back at the computer. He was accessing files, downloading the contents onto his USB pen. It looked like he was planning to leave.
“Ask him exactly how he intends to help us,” Geri said.
“No way,” Tom protested.
Geri went to the keyboard, pushing old Tom away again.
“I will, then,” she said.
She typed quickly, asking Gallagher if he had sent the helicopter.
NO, came the reply.
“Well, who is it then?” she asked, typing.
BAD PEOPLE.
“Bad people?” Tom barked. “You’re fucking bad people.”
“Gotta give it to this Gallagher fella,” Lark laughed. “He’s got a sense of humour.”
He sneezed again, his face grimacing with the pain. “Fuck me,” he croaked, shaking his hand dry.
“Ewww,” Brina said.
Lark smiled painfully at the child.
I CAN HELP YOU, came the next message on screen. “How?” Geri asked.
PROTECT YOU, Gallagher replied, still using the Agent13 sign-in.
The helicopter sounded closer.
“Can’t trust him,” Tom warned.
“I’m not even sure we can trust you, old man,” Lark said, his voice like gravel.
Geri looked over at the tattooed man, concern in her eyes.
She turned back to Tom. “Find out exactly how he plans to help us,” she said.
Tom went to protest, but Geri cut in, “Please, just do it.”
The old man blew some air out. Still petulant, he returned to the keyboard, started typing.
Geri went to Lark. Sat on the bed beside him. “What if he has the cure,” she said. “Willis said they were working on some sort of antivirus. Maybe they can help you...”
Lark stared up at her, his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them. “Look, do what you got to do. But I’m staying here.”
“No,” she said. “I’m only going if you come too. I need you.”
Lark shook his head. “I’m fucked,” he said.
“Please,” she protested but Lark raised a finger to her lips.
“Shhh,” he said.
He looked into Geri’s eyes. Moved his hand across her cheek. Ran his fingers through her hair.
He smiled at her.
It was a beautiful smile. A smile without malice or sarcasm.
A single tear ran down Geri’s face.
Lark moved his hand, found the gun and pressed it into her grasp.
“If you have to go,” he said. “Then go now.”
The helicopter was getting closer, almost upon them.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The helicopter landed in the yard, near the still burning car.
Three soldiers exited.
They were not from the Mahon Road Army Camp. They’d come from somewhere else, somewhere further away.
Their mission was simple: extract the child alive, kill the others.
They were dressed head-to-toe in yellow protective clothing. They carried breathing apparatus on their backs, masks on their faces. They were armed, each carrying a rifle, primed and ready for action, aimed forwards as they moved stealthily towards the farmhouse.
A couple of dead things seeped out of the nearby fields. They showed little interest in the soldiers, more interested in the dulling flames of the burned out car. But they were taken out anyway, perfectly aimed head shots enough to put them down for good.
The soldiers reached the farmhouse.
The first soldier nudged the front door with his boot, and the door gave easily. He moved through, searching first the stairs in front of him before sweeping the muzzle of his rifle across the hallway.
His colleague entered next, taking the stairs and ascending slowly towards the bedrooms.
The first soldier prised open the living room door, once again using his foot.
The living room was a mess. Empty gas cylinders. Black bin bags, stuffed full of waste, stacked against the wall. One of the bags was ripped open, a mixture of empty bottles, cans and cartons spread across the floor in front of the soldier.. The fireplace was overflowing with papers, blackened, mixing with the ash, like they’d been burned some time ago.
There were flies everywhere. Oddly, as the soldier watched, some of the flies fell to the floor as if somehow rendered unconscious...
The soldier heard a sound.
He swung the rifle around towards the kitchen area. The cutlery drawer was open, knives and forks and spoons spilled everywhere.
A faint hissing noise could be heard from the cooker. Through the eyes of his breathing mask, the soldier noticed movement in the air, like the glimmer of sun on an oppressively hot summer’s day.
He was grabbed from behind. Noticed the glint of a blade as it moved in front of his eyes. Then a painful heat, searing across his throat before the blood came, flowing quickly down the yellow plastic of his suit.
As the soldier stumbled, he caught sight of his attacker; a tall thin man with tattoos, holding a kitchen knife.
In desperation, the soldier aimed his rifle and fired.
***
The blast ripped through the farmhouse, flames lapping through the door and gaps in the boarded up windows. A pungent smell of gas filled the air. The sound of automatic fire could be heard. Then screaming, the shrill cries of men burning alive diabolically loud.
Geri wondered if Lark’s voice was among those she heard.
She held the child Brina in her arms, covering her sweet little face. She was too innocent, too beautiful to witness this kind of thing, and yet already, she’d witnessed much worse.
They sat behind the old shed in the yard, where the generator was stored.
Old Tom cowered beside them, surrounded by bags filled with papers and discs and books that he absolutely refused to leave without. His birdcage was there too; Brina had been insistent on bringing the parrot, despite its clearly dead demeanour.
Nearby was a helicopter. It looked a lot more modern than the helicopter Willis had flown. Geri could see the pilot through its dark glass windows, wearing similar protective clothing and headgear as the soldiers.
She sat Brina to the ground and made for the helicopter.
She grabbed the door just as the pilot went to close it. She struggled, wedging her foot in the gap to keep the door open.
The pilot fumbled for his sidearm. But his movements were clumsy, restricted by the gear. Geri got there first, aiming her gun squarely at his chest. She really wanted to kill this bastard, and the pilot knew it: he raised his hands to the air immediately.
“You’re going to fly this thing,” Geri told him. “Take us out of here.”
Tom climbed into the helicopter, still swamped by his bags. He helped the child up, gingerly dodging the birdcage as she swung it into the seat beside her.
“W-where are we going?” the pilot asked.
“Mahon Road Army camp,” Tom said, reluctantly. “Belly of the fucking beast.”
EPILOGUE
Waringstown, County Down
Lize’s body lay on the bed. Her eyes stared back at Martin as he lay down beside her. He’d tied her hands and feet. Covered her mouth with tape.
Martin pulled her close.
She struggled against him, her teeth grinding noisily.
“Shhh...” he said, stroking her face. “There, now...”
He’d spent the last hour opening the doors again, unwrapping whatever security he’d once deemed necessary to protect the house. There was no need for it anymore. His time had come.
Jamie and Shaun lay in the bath, their bodies broken up to ensure they didn’t rise again.
Only Martin remained, but he was nothing without his girl.
Lize...
Looking at her, Martin wondered once more if there was any semblance of life left in his daughter’s still beautiful body. Fred had wagged his tail when the body had first moved, excited by Lize’s smell, maybe, or the flickering of her eyes. But Martin knew deep down he was lying to himself. His little girl was dead. The only thing living within her was that damn virus.
It wouldn’t do.
Martin could hear Fred barking, no doubt warding off the first of the intruders. Soon the dead would fill the house, their coarse sounds already coming from the hallway, the stairs, the landing.
Lize continued to fight against the bonds.
Martin wanted release too.
He could hear the helicopter again. He wondered briefly who would be in it and where they would be going. He had called and waved as it made its first pass. But it was no use. He had been ignored by the helicopter, no doubt viewed as little more than a madman, dancing and waving from his window. And looking again at the mess he’d made of his daughter, Ma
rtin couldn’t argue with that.
This was where it would end.
The dead were at his bedroom door now.
Martin closed his eyes and waited.
Deep in the bowels of the Mahon Road Army Camp, Dr Miles Gallagher stood over the body of his former commanding officer. After a brief and futile struggle, Major Jackson had given into the infection.
Jackson’s eyes looked empty, like he’d given up long ago. But his lips dragged back against his teeth, frozen in one final silent scream.
He’d suffered terribly, yet Gallagher had offered Jackson no pity, and certainly no respect.
He simply waited.
Waited for the infection to move to its next stage. Subversion.
In the distance, he heard the sound of a helicopter. Major Jackson’s eyes began to flicker.
Gallagher smiled.
***
This concludes Fever.
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Fever (Flu) Page 26
