"Indeed," Gallagher said. The image continued to appear more fully on the screen. "Did it give you pleasure, sir?" he asked, drawing closer to Jackson. He extended two fingers, shaping his hand like a handgun and pressing it to Jackson's head, "To shoot a young boy in cold blood?" the image finally loaded, flicking onto the screen and causing a sudden intake of breath around the room. The body of a young boy, hardly sixteen, slumped against a chair with a bullet wound in his head. Jackson couldn't look at it. He pushed Gallagher away, reaching for a Glock on the table. Gallagher stepped back, steadying himself, looking right at Jackson as the barrel of the Glock travelled towards an imaginary crosshairs on the doctor's forehead. He didn't seem to be afraid. Even under threat of death, this callous bastard had nothing to give, nothing to share.
But Jackson felt a sharp pain stab him, as the sound of a silenced shot rang out, the private at the control panel firing upon him purposefully. He fell quickly, his own handgun rattling along the dusty floor of the control room to land at Gallagher's feet. His breathing became quick, his heart pounding in his chest like a hammer. He felt himself lose consciousness, fading out of the room like an old record. Everything was spinning around him, his eyelids starting to fall, as if heavy. The last thing he saw was the face of Dr Miles Gallagher drawing close to him, as if concerned.
Chapter Fifteen
"So, there was nothing you could take?" McFall asked.
They were sitting at the kitchen table again. Lark looked at the ski-masked man, shaking his head.
"Did you hear anything I just said?" he asked, mouth agape. "You're a fucking dick, man "
"What?" McFall said, looking hurt. "I was just asking, like. I thought you might bring a few tins back for me "
"Some poor bastard over there got his guts ripped out!" Lark shouted, slamming his fist on the table, "and all you can think of is what?! your next beer?"
"Look," George interrupted, "he's right. He may not be the most sensitive bloke in the world, but he does have a point. We do need to get more food and drink. And quickly."
"But where from?" Norman said. "Every supermarket, every off-licence in town's likely to have been ransacked."
"We have to think creatively," Geri added. "He's right, all the obvious places will have been hit hard early on."
"Canteens," McFall said, looking around the room uncomfortably. "You know, school canteens and the like."
George tilted his head in consideration.
"Probably a better shot than a supermarket, that's for sure " he said.
"What about other houses?" Geri said, "Like next door, across the road. That kind of thing."
"Oh, and there's a load of stuff in the car outside, too," McFall offered. "The one I drove on the day I -"
"Nearly killed me?" Geri spat, shooting the ski- masked man a dirty look.
"For the danger you'd be placing yourself in," George said, ignoring the tension, "I don't think there'd be much payback."
"Warehouses," Norman said.
George looked at him, quietly weighing up the pros and cons of the suggestion.
"They'd be in the edges of the city," Norman continued. "Less likely to be hit, as much as the more central and obvious places."
"Probably onto something there," McFall said.
"How are we for fuel?" George asked, seemingly considering the suggestion from all angles.
"Not great," Norm replied. "But we could grab some on the way, maybe."
The five survivors thought about the proposal for a second.
"We have to do it," George said, sighing. "What's the alternative?"
"A couple of spoonfuls of mushroom soup. Chocolate for dessert," Lark offered helpfully.
"Okay," George said. "We need to get some sleep before we do this. We'll leave tomorrow at dawn." He got up from the table, making for the door to the hallway.
"Wait, who leaves?" McFall asked.
George stalled, turning around.
"We're going to need as many people as possible to get the job done fast. The Land Rover can take four of us, easily. There'll still be loads of space for the supplies. We may even find another van or something, to take more back with us."
"Y-you'll need someone to stay here and mind things," McFall stuttered.
George thought for a minute, rubbing the stubble on his chin. It reminded him to add razors to his shopping list.
"Okay," he said, shaking his head. "If you want to stay behind, then stay behind." He kept his eyes on McFall, noticing how embarrassed he looked by his own cowardice. The poor bastard was constantly on edge, constantly on the defensive. Retreating further and further into himself, like a snail with a shell. George wondered if the balaclava was more to do with terminal shyness than any hope of shielding him against the virus. His mind was brought back to the yellow suit and oxygen mask that he had worn. How they had helped to keep him separate from the world around him, a world going to hell. How they had made it easier to do the things he had done. He was glad when they had run out of oxygen and the suits became worthless, pointless. He was no longer that man in that suit. This was a fresh start for Sergeant George Kelly, and he was going to make the most of it.
Suddenly there were chocolate eyes staring up at him from within McFall's balaclava. The eyes of a child, a child still locked in a flat somewhere in Finaghy. A child that haunted him. George blinked, rubbing his own tired, red eyes. When he looked back at McFall, the man stared back nervously. No more chocolate.
He looked at his watch, realising, mercifully, that it was late. It was time for bed.
The sleeping arrangements seemed to revolve around Geri being the only woman in the house. She had the pleasure, therefore, of her own room, while the others had to sleep in either the remaining small bedroom or downstairs. Lark ended up bunking in with McFall in the smaller of the two bedrooms, while the two cops spread themselves out between the kitchen and living room.
It made Geri feel safe. She was surrounded on all corners, her bedroom the furthest part of upstairs. She had the pleasure of knowing that if those things ever got into the house, they would have to get through the cops, then McFall and Lark, before she would be dealing with them.
Geri pulled the duvet over her tired body, snuggling into the comfort of an old teddy she'd found in one of the other rooms. She used to have one of her own, simply called Bear, and she often had to check herself from wondering what became of it. It was the epitome of selfishness to concern herself with the fate of a teddy bear, come the apocalypse.
She was hungry, the growl of her belly hoarse and uncouth over the stillness of the night. The sounds of hunger were uncannily like the sounds those things outside would make. Geri thought about that, for a moment, wondering to herself if the dead, themselves, were the very definition of 'hunger.' Hungry for flesh, sure, but also hungry for life, for the very thing that had been taken from them. Did they think, she considered, that in devouring the living, they could get one step closer to life themselves? Was it like some fucked-up version of purgatory? Either way, she hoped to God that she and the others would find food tomorrow. Otherwise, she would be seriously tempted to consider placing McFall on that fucking camping cooker he was so obsessed with fussing over. He did seem to be the weightiest amongst them. Well, maybe apart from the formidable looking cop. But, let's face it, no one was going to try and eat that scary bastard.
Her tiredness felt heavy, forceful, as if it were tying her to the bed and blindfolding her. She couldn't fight against it any longer. She simply had to give in, allowing sleep to take her into its dark domain. She was under in seconds.
Her mind refused to rest, though, eventually weaving through her hopes and fears to create a vivid dream. She could see herself standing on the street, wearing nothing but her t-shirt and pants. A sea of hot blood lapped at her ankles. She seemed strangely unaffected by it. It was as if it couldn't get to her, couldn't reach her for some reason. All around her, the friends, family, lovers she had known in the old world were drownin
g in the sea, blood staining their hair, faces, skin like thick sauce. They called out to her, and she tried to reach for them, but the sea cruelly beat against her hands, forcing her back with its ferocity.
She turned, suddenly, to find George standing beside her. She tried to call out to him, asking him to help those around them, but he stood stoically still, the body of a young child resting in his arms as if asleep. As she watched, the child's eyes began to open. They were beautiful eyes, and they made Geri smile. But then the child reached for George's throat with its tiny hands, pulling his exposed skin towards its mouth and biting through like toffee. Geri was screaming at George, warning him of the danger, but he just stared at her, as if this were part of his destiny, as if to reject it would be futile.
She woke to hear a hammering at the door. Her heart immediately leapt into her mouth as the cobwebs of sleep cleared. She realised it wasn't part of her dream. This was actually happening. The knock came again, harder and faster than before. It made her jump every time it hit. Was it the dead? Suddenly riled into a murderous fervour? Beating the door down and climbing through to devour them all in their sleep?
She climbed, quickly, from bed, pulling on her t-shirt and jeans and leaving the room. Moving into the hall, she spotted Lark standing in the landing. His profile cut a sinister shape in the dark, tall and lean, like the Grim Reaper himself, revolver in his hand. He was looking down the stairs, towards the front door. He looked up when he noticed her, dark rings circling his eyes as always, his face tired and dishevelled looking.
"What's going on?" she asked him, but he raised a finger across his lips to silence her.
She quietly joined him at the top of the stairs. She followed his gaze, focusing on the door at the bottom of the stairs. It seemed so weak to her, all of a sudden, and she wondered how they depended upon it to keep the dead out. It was literally bouncing with the force of the knocks against it.
She saw the bigger cop, Norman, moving towards it from the downstairs hallway, his own gun in hand. He cast a glance up the stairs. Lark shook his head, clearly advising the cop not to open the door, but Norman just smiled mischievously.
They watched in horror as Norman reached forward to unlock the door and pull it open. His large, bear-like arm reached through the crack in the doorway, dragging the panicked figure of a man into the hallway. Once through, Norman forced the door closed again, locking it up tight.
"Bad idea," Lark whispered, melodramatically.
He looked young, even with the facial hair and dirt coating his skin like tar. His face was blackened, the dirt and grime of a dying city hardening around his mouth like soot. He obviously hadn't washed or changed his clothes for weeks. A large overcoat wrapped around him, soiled and re-soiled as if it, too, could speak candidly about the adventures they had no doubt shared together, the hell they had gone through. His eyes were full of fear, his scrawny, malnourished body cowering in his seat rather than sitting.
The others surrounded him at the kitchen table, the newcomer perched at the end, as if attending some bizarre interview. Norman took the lead, the cowering man seeming to look to him as the one he knew best, the one who had plucked him from the very pit of hell itself. And that was going to make Norman a man to fear or respect or thank, or all of the above.
"What's your name, son?" he asked, fixing him with a sharp, no-nonsense stare. It was obvious how intimidating the bigger man's presence could be in this type of situation.
"P-Paddy," the newcomer answered, stuttering and looking around at the others quickly.
"And how did you know we were here, Paddy?" the big cop continued.
Paddy was shaking. He was trying to find the words, but they didn't seem to be coming.
"We're not going to hurt you, Paddy; we just want to know what happened to you," George offered, trying to offset the other cop's more direct approach at questioning. He seemed almost embarrassed by the good-cop, bad-cop routine. It was very obvious, very stereotypical. But it appeared to be working; the shell- shocked survivor at the table seemed to be comforted by his words. Still he cowered, though, shivering in the coolness of the night.
George asked McFall to make a cup of tea. Paddy stared at the ski-masked survivor as he rose from the table.
"You needn't worry about him, son," Norman laughed, "He's not as scary as he looks. Quite the fucking opposite!"
But McFall said nothing, quietly draining the same tea bag he had used many times already into a half- filled cup of hot water from the camping cooker. He sat the cup down beside Paddy, who literally jumped as it tapped the table.
"Jesus," McFall said. "Steady on, lad. It's just a cup of tea, like."
"Leave him alone," Geri said. "He's obviously been through a lot."
"It's o-okay," Paddy said in a quiet whisper. "I know I'm getting on like some bloody weirdo. But it's pretty bad outside. Does things to a man, being out there for too long."
"Where were you, exactly?" Norman pried, further, trying to get the conversation back on track.
Paddy lifted the tea cup to his lips with trembling hands, gulping the contents down greedily. Once drained, he sat the cup down, looking to McFall as if an orphan asking for more.
"None left, mate," McFall said.
Geri glared at him, kicking his shins.
"Ah! What was that for? There isn't any left!" he protested, childishly.
"Just start from the beginning," Norman said to Paddy, assertively, clearly tiring of the nonsense bouncing between each of the other survivors.
"Alright," said Paddy calmly. He seemed to have got his gusto back rather quickly, almost as if the tea McFall had poured for him had been magical. "I'll tell you what it's like out there," he said. "But it's not going to be easy listening "
"I was a school teacher before all of this happened," Paddy said, allowing himself a sardonic chuckle at that. "Even though I can hardly remember a thing about those days. How long ago it was, how good I was. I can't even remember much about the school I worked in or the kids I used to teach." He looked up from the empty teacup he was fumbling like a security blanket. "Everything changes when you've been there " he said.
"Been where?" asked Geri, reaching her hand forward, placing it on the young survivor's shoulder.
He looked up at her, tears gathering at the sides of his eyes. "At the camp," he said, softly, as if it were a secret. "The Rescue Camp."
A silence descended upon the table. It was a reverent silence, but also a fearful silence. Pretty much everyone gathered had heard about the camps, some even knowing people who had sought help at one. But none of them, until now, had known of someone to return from one alive. This was history in the making. A new breed of history. The whole room was immediately hanging on Paddy's every word. The air was thick with anticipation.
"Which camp were you at?" George asked, his voice breaking a little when he spoke.
"Craigavon," Paddy said. "Near the lakes. About three hundred survivors were trucked in there, at the end. They had built it to cope with the evacuations of the bigger housing estates. I was one of the first to arrive. At the time I got there, there weren't very many people around. The camp was just opening, and although it wasn't anywhere near as good as they were making it out to be on the posters and on the broadcast channel, it wasn't all bad. They had plenty of food and water for everyone. Warm bedding and shelter. And it was safe, too. There were armed guards, everywhere, wearing those yellow suits."
George and Norman exchanged a glance. It was a knowing glance, and Geri wondered what connection there could be between them and the camps.
"They patrolled the area, keeping everyone in and the dead out. I remember waking up to the sound of shooting more than once in those early days."
"Was there any medicine being given out?" Geri asked, "you know, like they promised on the posters?"
"I didn't see any medicine," Paddy said. "There were doctors, of course. At the start, it was hard to tell them apart from the guards, though. They all were wearin
g the same yellow suits, you see. And none of them spoke very much to you. Some of the doctors took folks away, during the early days. Especially the old and disabled. We never saw them again, but no one seemed to complain.
"Eventually, we didn't see the doctors much, either. Only the guards, and even their presence became less intense. They just told you where to go to get food and water, where to dump your waste or get washed up, and pretty much left you to your own devices after that. Some people asked for the medicine, but the guards just told them it hadn't arrived yet."
"How long were you there for?" George asked.
"A few weeks. A couple of months. One day bled into the next, so it was hard to tell. There was nothing for people to do, so most just slept the day away, waking up for the food drops. At one point, they brought us books and toys for the children to play with. But then more busloads arrived, and it was difficult to find any space to read or play anymore."
Geri felt like asking Paddy about the people she knew, her family and friends, even, to see if he had met them or knew what had become of them. But she thought it would be selfish to ask those questions, and she knew that, by the look of him, his tale was about to take a rather nasty turn for the worse.
"So, was that when things began to get worse?" George asked. "When the others arrived?"
Paddy fixed his eyes on George as he spoke. He suddenly began to weep. Silently and rhythmically. His head bowed, and his shoulders shook, like some kind of wind-up toy. It was all rushing back to him, Geri thought. Events that had stuck in his mind more vividly than his previous life, or job. She considered, for a moment, the power of 'experience'. How one event in your life could overwrite everything that had gone before it and would happen after it. For a moment, the brilliance of that scared her.
"Things got a lot worse when the others came," Paddy said, almost in a whisper. McFall offered him a tissue, and he took it, blowing his nose quietly before continuing. "They were bringing too many people in. 1 could hear the guards complaining about it to the doctors. Some of them even tried to turn the trucks away, but when it looked like a riot might start, they were left with no option but to open the gates and let them in. The dead were everywhere, then. We could smell them all around us, circling us like hungry dogs. They had completely surrounded the camp, meaning it was very difficult for the trucks to get in and out. Eventually, they just stayed there, parking in the perimeter fencing surrounding the main camp. Before long, there were too many trucks, meaning the guards couldn't open and close the perimeter entrance to allow any more to get in. And that's when things got really messy. You've got to remember, there was absolutely no space left, then. People were rammed in like sardines in a tin. We were sleeping standing up. The sewage system had broken down, and "
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