by Tim Lebbon
“Jesus,” Jonah muttered, because it seemed the horror would never end. There were no microphones on the facility cameras and silence made the carnage more shocking somehow. The picture flickered and settled on the canteen, apparently still and peaceful until a naked man pulled himself up on one of the dining tables, his throat a ragged mess, his chest scored by scratch marks, and ran quickly from the room.
The image flicked to the kitchen. There was no one there and no movement, and then there was a thrashing at one edge of the screen, someone moving just out of shot, their shadow thrown across the room by harsh fluorescents, and a spray of blood splashed across the previously pristine food-preparation surface.
The large garage area: unsettlingly still, three big vehicles sitting like soldiers awaiting orders. He scanned the image, trying to work out what was wrong with what he saw but unable to find anything. Just that it’s so still.
One of the accommodation hallways: no movement, but a heavy smear of blood along one wall, and something that looked like bloody clothing piled against a closed door. Jonah counted three out of eight doors that were still closed. There were no cameras inside the rooms. Invasion of privacy. He wished he could reach through and knock on those doors, but if there was anyone inside left alive they would surely not answer.
A second accommodation hallway: and the shock of what he saw made him flinch back in his seat. At the far end of the hallway, thirty feet from the camera, bodies thrashed and fought, maybe seven or eight of them. He saw the flash of several gunshots and one body flipped back. A man leaned from a doorway and aimed down at the body, shooting three more times. He retreated back into the room and the light changed as the door slammed, and then the body stood again and started throwing itself against the door. Its chest was a ragged mess. It wore a nightdress, and Jonah thought its foot had been torn apart until he realised it was a fluffy rabbit slipper.
Jonah changed views to a storeroom close to the gym. Estelle and Uri were huddled together in a corner, the guard who’d left with them crouching behind the locked door. Jonah could see their careful movements to ease pressure on bent limbs, their heavy breathing as fear refused to loosen its grip on them. Uri glanced up at the camera, then back at Estelle. He was holding her tightly. She held him too. Uri used to juggle during his lunch breaks to settle his nervous disposition, and Estelle had a quotation handy for most occasions. Jonah wondered what she would come up with for this one but he could see that she was silent.
He checked the list of camera locations displayed on the laptop before him and entered a code for the fourth screen. It was a view of the short storage-area corridor, and it was full of dead people.
Dead people, Jonah thought. Is that right? How can they be dead? They’re not fucking zombies, so they must be…? But he had seen the damage inflicted on some of these people. Even if they were infected with a contagion that subdued pain and turned them into berserkers, they could not function drained of blood, or with shredded muscles or cracked bones, or—
Leave that for later, he thought.
There were seven people in the corridor and all of them were standing still. Their wounds flickered slightly on-screen: wet, open, but no longer bleeding. He knew all their names but tried not to think of them. They seemed to be listening, waiting. They knew what was behind the door.
In the storeroom, the guard seemed to be whispering to Uri and Estelle. Jonah wished he could hear, because he had a terrible sense of what was about to happen.
How the hell can I speak to them? he wondered. He tapped at the laptop, bringing up schematics of the facility and turning around to view them on the large wall behind him. He glanced at some of the folding chairs the guard had opened up, thought, There should be people sitting there now, and then tried to concentrate. Fire alarm? Lighting system? Anything he could control from here to give them warning, because the guard was growing impatient.
Jonah thought he might open the door.
“Damn it, damn it!” His heart fluttered and he coughed, and he cursed his advancing years. He’d never thought of himself as infirm, though he had never been one to deny the onset of age. Now, though, he wished he were a younger man. A younger man might leave the room with a makeshift weapon—a chair leg, or a strut from beneath the table—and try to fight his way down one level to the storeroom, stop whatever was about to happen. But Jonah didn’t think his heart would take it.
Besides, his was a greater responsibility. He glanced at the breach again and guilt weighed heavy on him. All that planning and all those precautions—and Control’s lockdown had still failed.
On the screen, the guard rested his hand on the door handle. Uri was shaking one hand at him, leaning forward to speak in his ear, but Estelle held him back, not wishing to relinquish contact. The guard waved them away without even looking. In his right hand he held his sub-machine gun, aimed directly at the door.
On the next screen there was a shimmer of movement through the assembled bloodied people, as if the picture had skipped several frames.
“No!” Jonah screamed. “Leave the door alone!” It was a cry of impotence, a useless gesture, and he was not used to such things. His blood raged, and he clenched his fists and thumped the desk as the guard worked the handle.
The sudden movement on the next screen was startling. Any suspicion that Jonah had about them waiting together as a group vanished instantly when all seven people surged at the door. They clawed past each other, shoving, thrusting forward, and on the storeroom screen he saw the door burst open and the guard disappear beneath an avalanche of bodies.
Estelle and Uri drew back, pressing past boxes and causing them to tumble down around them. For a moment Jonah was unsure what the falling, streaming things were, but then he knew: toilet paper, a hundred rolls unfurling and bouncing around the small room, quickly turning dark as they soaked up the blood already being spilled.
Uri kicked and punched, Estelle grabbed someone around the throat, and there was a flash as a gun fired. Jonah did not want to see, but he had to watch. He had to learn. Something was happening here that needed witnessing and he concentrated, biting his lip and trying to pretend that the blood and death he saw was only a movie. But Uri was his friend, and seeing him fall beneath two ravening people, seeing their heads darting up and down as they bit, could not be ignored so easily. And Estelle. He saw her throwing toilet rolls at someone so bloodied and mutilated that Jonah could not identify them—and then that someone pressed in and gnawed off part of Estelle’s face. He could not pretend that was make-believe. The blood and silent screams were real; the sight of people who should be dead acting like a pack of starving dogs was painfully, impossibly real.
“What have I done?” Jonah said aloud and he thought of Bill Coldbrook slumped dead in his chair, the empty sleeping-pill bottle on the floor beside him. Had he known? Impossible: he couldn’t have, because if he had surely he would have—
Jonah thought of the dreams, the thing in his room, how he’d actually felt the feather-touch of its finger lifting his eyelid. “They were dead, too,” he muttered, remembering the shambling people in his nightmares, the bitten man being whisked away by a machine like none he had ever seen before.
Jonah closed his eyes for a moment, shutting out the terrible images so that he could gather his thoughts. But they were loose and elusive, shocked apart by this terrible reality.
He looked again and the guard was on his feet, backed into the corner beneath the camera. Jonah saw only the sub-machine gun and the man’s hand and forearm, and the screen flashed five more times until the bullets ran out. The attackers jerked and danced at the bullets struck them, but only two fell. One stood up again, his hand scratching at his chest as if he was irritated by a fly bite. The other, Estelle, stayed down, the top of her head blown off. And Jonah concentrated on her as the shapes pressed in below the camera and the guard met his end, waiting for her to move again. She did not. Her eyes were open, looking lifeless through the lens.
“Blew her head o
ff,” he muttered.
He steeled himself, then ran through the facility’s cameras one more time. Three out of twenty-three had ceased working, but on every other screen he saw only those mad people walking—he could tell by the blood, and their injuries, and their slack faces, and the way their arms failed to swing as they moved that they were not merely survivors—and a few motionless. He tried to zoom in on these, but the angles were wrong, and picture quality worsened the further in a camera zoomed. Only on one of the bodies did he see clear evidence of severe head trauma.
Jonah started to shake. Could they all be infected? Everyone? There were places to hide in Coldbrook’s three levels: cupboards and locked rooms, nooks and crannies, empty spaces left over from construction of the underground facility more than twenty years before. And those three closed doors in one of the accommodation corridors—maybe survivors were hiding in there. If so, he hoped they were people who had seen what those infected—those bitten—could do. Otherwise they might be tempted to open their doors.
He glanced at the reinforced viewing window in Secondary’s single door, but there was no face there looking in. I’ll have to leave sometime, he thought, and fear shivered through him. He breathed deeply and tried to pull himself together. Panic could help no one, least of all him. The news would be spreading beyond Coldbrook by now. His new aim must be only to stay alive and gather whatever information he could.
3
Vic heard gunshots. They were shooting at him! He flung himself into the ditch beside the road and felt cool slick mud closing around his arm and hand. The palmtop slipped from his pocket and splashed into the mud. He panicked, trying to prevent himself sinking deeper. The muck stank, but he welcomed the smell because it meant he was outside. Down in Coldbrook the air was sterile and clean, but to Vic it always smelled artificial. Real air was tainted by life, and he was glad to be free.
He rolled onto his back and sat up, his stomach muscles screaming. Really should have used that gym, he thought as he looked back down into the valley. Coldbrook sat further down the hillside, and now there were lights on in the buildings. He realised that the shooting had been distant, gunshots echoing from the slopes. No one was chasing him. His nerves had got the better of him. He tried to breathe calmly, but could not stop panting from exertion and fear. His heart fluttered like a trapped bird. He felt nauseous but it was nothing to do with the stinking ditch he had thrown himself into.
It was everything to do with those gunshots.
Something flashed down in the compound, though it was too far away to make out any detail, and seconds later more gunfire echoed up to him.
It’s out, Vic thought, and his chest and stomach felt heavy. I should have sealed that duct behind me, even the hatch, even if I’d spent a minute to screw that back properly instead of just propping it… But panic had gripped him, a mortal fear for Lucy and Olivia that had dulled his understanding and made his thoughts race: reach home, at all costs. The idea that the danger could be contained had not occurred to him. Never before had instinct taken him so completely, and as he climbed from that ditch he shivered at the idea.
He stepped back up onto the road and started running again, Coldbrook at his back, the long slope of the ridge ahead of him. Danton Rock was maybe a mile away over the curve of the hilltop. Already he could see the first few farm buildings. To the east the sun was smudging the division between night and morning, and he was beginning to dread what the day would bring.
The satphone shrilled again, but Vic ignored it. He couldn’t talk to Jonah just yet. Whatever the shooting was about, they’ve got it contained, he thought, trying to make sense of what he was doing. Trying to divert the blame. He had to keep it at bay until he reached his family. Then he could speak to Jonah; then he could find out what had really happened and how bad it was.
“I’ll be back down there by sunset,” he muttered, his voice shaking as he ran. “He’ll be fucking furious, he’ll dock a month’s money, but he’ll need me down there.”
The lies kept coming as the road passed by beneath his feet, and the rising sun started to dry the thin, putrid mud coating his right side. He was exhausted but he ran on, ignoring for now his straining lungs and the burning in his knees and legs. His satphone had gone silent and he started to fear what that meant.
The road twisted up towards the ridge, and as it started to level out he passed the small farm on Danton Rock’s outskirts. A few cows lifted their heads to watch him pass by, still chewing the cud, uninterested. A dog barked somewhere out of sight, and he could hear the sound of a motor among the farm buildings.
He slowed down, the shaking in his chest forcing him to a walk. He passed several houses on his right and a row of shops on his left, a couple of small restaurants tucked neatly between a baker’s, a food store, and a pharmacy. He and Lucy had eaten in the Asian restaurant several times, and once they’d been in there when Holly had walked in. Vic’s surprise had been genuine—Holly rarely ventured out of Coldbrook, and when she did she tended to travel to Asheville for a couple of days away from work. It had not been the first time that Holly and Lucy had met, and he’d sat awkwardly while the two women exchanged pleasantries. He and Holly had still been involved then, and the rest of the evening after she joined the friends who’d arrived soon after had been strained. He and Lucy had made love when they returned home, he remembered, and afterwards she had asked him what was wrong.
He started to run again, driven by thoughts of his wife.
* * *
“We have to get away. In ten minutes. Pack a bag for both of you, but leave Olivia on the Wii for now. How’s the car? Is the tank full?”
Lucy stood at their kitchen counter, still wearing her dressing gown, hair a mess, eyes puffy from sleep. Coffee was brewing, and as she and Vic stared at each other in uneasy silence the toaster popped up three slices. Vic jumped slightly, then looked around their kitchen. He spoke with Lucy several times each day but he had not been home since breach, four days earlier.
“You’re covered in mud.”
“Yeah.”
He’d appeared at the back door to see Lucy stretching and yawning, mug in one hand and the other scratching absently below one breast. Then she’d seen him, her eyes going wide and a slick of coffee spilling down her front. It had not been hot.
“I don’t understand. Why won’t you tell me why?”
“I will. When we’re on the road,” he said again. If he started now, he’d have to finish, and he had no real idea how this would end. He’d drive and talk at the same time. And if he was going to scare her he’d rather it were as they were leaving than now, when she had herself and Olivia to get together. And he had stuff to think about, things they’d need to take with them. Vic, something’s come through… a creature, but…
“But you’re scaring me!” Lucy said. “You look—”
“Everything’s going to be fine. I’ve been running, that’s all.” He moved to the side and glanced at his reflection in the oven door. He no longer looked like himself, and he wondered if mere mud and exhaustion could do that.
“Olivia won’t want to go. She’s only been up twenty minutes, she hasn’t even had…” Lucy nodded at the toast, and Vic moved quickly across to her, grasping her upper arms and pulling her close. He stared into her gorgeous blue eyes for a few seconds, seeing how this was upsetting her but unable to change course. Then he hugged her to him, thinking of the dream and his dead sister, and those brief moments of suspicion he’d seen in his wife’s eyes.
“Something came through,” he said.
“What?” Her voice was muffled against his shoulder.
“Just trust me. I’ll tell you everything I know when we’re rolling. But I want to be away from here in ten minutes.” Vic let go and moved back, looking her in the eyes again and loving everything about her. She was scared, but she’d sniffed back any tears.
“Okay,” she said. “But Olivia will—”
“Daddy!” the little girl shouted as
she ran into the kitchen, and Vic’s smile as he spun around to sweep her up was genuine. Olivia hugged him tight around the neck and her long hair brushed against his face, tickling his nose. “Wow, you’re all dirty.”
“Yeah, I know, sweetie!” he said, hugging her back. This was everything he had left Coldbrook for. He turned so that he could see Lucy and offer her a smile.
“Hey, honey,” Lucy said. “Daddy’s been keeping a surprise from us.”
“Has he found Rosie?” Olivia asked, so serious. Rosie was a doll she’d lost over a year ago, a ragtag creation that still seemed to visit her dreams.
“Not Rosie, sweetie,” Vic said. “But we’re going on holiday.”
“Yay! No school?”
“No school,” he said.
“How long for?”
Vic glanced at Lucy, and something in his eyes must have struck her for the first time. She leaned gently against the kitchen worktop for support.
“Only a few days,” he said. “That’s all.”
* * *
Vic wanted to leave in ten minutes, but it was almost twenty before they were sitting in their RAV4, Olivia strapped into her seat in the back with a Nintendo DS open on her lap, Lucy clicking her seat belt and sitting back, staring straight ahead. When he’d stretched to push several large water bottles behind the front seats, she’d caught sight of the pistol in his belt. She’d hardly said anything since and it was time to tell her what he knew.
“Lucy, everything I’m doing is for—”
“Should I call my mother?” Lucy asked. There was a quiver of fear in her voice. “Or Richard? He and Rhian are in Seattle, should I—”
“Don’t call anyone!” Vic said, more sharply than he’d intended.
Lucy blinked and stared at him wide-eyed.
He sighed, started the car, and sat back in his seat for a moment, eyes closed, trying to remember everything they had packed. Should have brought more food, he thought. And water. Only ten litres of water. Lucy had thrown a load of clothes into a suitcase and a kitbag, and Vic had added some heavy walking boots, coats and gloves, even though it was still only September. Toys and books for Olivia, a mobile charger for his phone, the spare five hundred dollars he kept in an envelope in his desk drawer. When he’d casually loaded a compact tent and camping stove into the car, Lucy’s glare had been thunderous. But he’d ignored it and walked away, because there was so much left to do.
