Reaction (Wildfire Chronicles Volume 6)

by K. R. Griffiths

“You were on the McIntosh ship?”

  Kyle nodded.

  “Well,” the older man said. “A lot’s happened since then. It’s already been through two ships that we know of.”

  “In five fucking minutes?”

  “Yeah,” the younger soldier snarled. “Nice chat. Now get on the chopper or don’t, but you”—he jabbed the barrel of a pistol into the pilot’s neck—”get this fucking thing back in the air now.”

  The pilot bristled.

  “That’s the second gun I’ve had pointed at me in-”

  “Then I guess you’re just unlucky, mate. Pilots are pretty valuable at the moment. Trust me, the way things are going on this ship, you’re going to have someone pointing a gun at you one way or another. You’ll be glad it was me, because I really don’t want to have to pull this trigger.”

  The pilot stared at him, his eyes narrowing, and sighed. He fired the engine again, and the rotor began to howl.

  “I don’t have much fuel. Where is it you want to go?”

  “Not far. We’re landing on the fastest ship out there, and then we’re getting the fuck out of here before Sullivan kills us all.”

  The pilot pouted almost comically.

  “Well,” he said. “You could have just said that.”

  Kyle heaved himself back onto the helicopter, and moments later he felt the deck of the Conqueror fall away. As the chopper rose into the sky, he stared down at the enormous ship. At a glance it looked quiet and still, and it was difficult to believe that anything at all was happening beneath the surface.

  *

  Jake stood in a shallow lake of blood, and felt a certain amount of disappointment.

  The destroyer he had torn through like an Act of God hadn’t been the challenge he had hoped for after all, and after charging through two vessels without meeting meaningful resistance he had expected that the largest ship in the fleet—an enormous aircraft carrier—would also have the largest crew.

  As fatigue began to set in it had taken him two attempts to punch through the thick steel hull, which was a little disconcerting, and what he had found inside was mainly corpses. It was as if the humans aboard the carrier had been aware of his imminent arrival and had formed some sort of mass-suicide pact.

  All the bodies looked peaceful; unmarked, almost as if they had all just decided to go to sleep. As ever, the enormous energy expended by Jake’s preternatural movement had taken a massive toll, and the first thing he did was take a huge bite out of one of the bodies.

  He spat the meat back out in disgust.

  The blood of the dead had been poisoned. If this was the old man’s attempt to prevent the inevitable, Jake thought, it was poorly planned.

  He wandered cautiously through the piles of bodies, until finally he registered some actual living humans nearby, and he made straight for them, tearing them apart eagerly and shuddering in ecstasy at the powerful rush of energy their blood provided. Yet there were only a handful.

  Puzzling.

  At least, once the energy began to course through him, he was able to move faster, but still Jake found himself hesitant to proceed. The ships and the humans he had encountered thus far had been entirely predictable in their reactions: they fired their ineffectual weapons until the bullets ran out, and then they died in spectacular fountains of blood that made Jake feel giddy.

  Yet this was different.

  Surely the old man would be on this ship: the biggest in the fleet; the one at the centre. Sitting at the middle of things like a fat spider on an enormous web.

  Unless, just like a spider’s web, the aircraft carrier was a trap; just a big piece of irresistible bait to lure him in.

  Jake had underestimated Sullivan once before, and the result had been catastrophic. The old man was cunning and ruthless. Charging forward blindly might well end in disaster and darkness and the horrific noise that had made his nerves shriek in agony.

  The incessant need that burned in Jake’s twisted mind urged him forward, relentlessly exhorting him to give in to the monster that he had become, and to blindly pursue the blood and violence he craved so desperately.

  Only the part that remained vaguely human held him back. The part that had once been a simpering coward that he detested with all his soul.

  Controlling his impulses had always been a problem, but in the past it had been one that he had learned to overcome when necessary. He had never been the sort of lunatic that was completely blinded by their lust. Those sort of killers were sloppy; easily apprehended. Detachment and the intelligence to see the bigger picture were vital, he had always believed, if you were to forge out a successful life in the business of serial murder.

  The thought that he was now in thrall to his own twisted genes and the addiction to the narcotic rush of human flesh; helpless as a shivering junkie, mortified and enraged him.

  This is a trap.

  You should run away.

  Shut the fuck up, coward.

  With an enormous effort, Jake forced himself to move slowly, creeping through the belly of the ship on high alert and conserving the energy that leaked away from him with such appalling ease.

  The ship was gigantic, but he could sense the presence of humans not too far away. Somewhere above him. Fighting to suppress the dark desire that screeched in every cell of his mutated body, and refusing to acknowledge the familiar voice in his mind that told him to flee, Jake began to ascend.

  Chapter 37

  Sweat trickled down Michael’s brow, making him itch, and he had an overwhelming urge to brush it away before it ran into his eyes, but his fingers were locked around the rifle, and they didn’t appear to be keen to let go for anything.

  Staring down the barrel at the door, he expected it to burst open at any moment, but instead he heard a familiar sound, one that took him right back to his first encounter with the creatures that had destroyed everything.

  Sniff…sniff.

  The creature was unaware of the people cowering in the next room, and was stumbling blindly around the restaurant’s dining area, trying to locate the prey that it knew had been there only moments before. With an effort, Michael pried his fingers from the rifle, and pressed his forefinger to his lips.

  Maybe if we remain quiet. Just maybe…

  He breathed in softly through his nose. Overwhelmingly he could smell coffee and cooking oil that had been re-used one too many times. By the smell of the place, the restaurant had done a rocking trade in bacon sandwiches and fried sausages, and the scent of the meat seemed ingrained.

  He heard a screech of wood on tile. From the sound of it, the creature in the dining room had stumbled among the tables, and had bumped into a chair. Beyond the door, he heard a faint rushing noise; an expulsion of air that reminded him a little of a horse snorting out a breath.

  The thing in the dining room sounded…disappointed.

  Michael felt a chill running down his spine.

  How human are these fucking things? he thought. How much do they think?

  As if in response to the question, he heard a shattering of glass on the dining room floor.

  It could simply have been the creature bumping into a table and knocking a wine glass from it, of course, but the image in Michael’s mind was of the thing sweeping an arm across the table and sending the glass to the floor.

  Frustration.

  He let out a breath, long and slow; a breath he hadn’t realised had been held in for several long moments, and slowly twisted his neck to face Linda and the children. With an effort he tore his left hand from the barrel of the rifle and held it up. One of John’s simple gesture commands.

  Wait.

  The swinging doors that separated them from the horror in the other room had no means of locking, but they did have handles. Just wide enough that Michael thought he could slip the rifle through to bar the doors.

  And what then? Even if you can do that without making a noise, there’s no way out of this kitchen without the keys.

  Michael’s mind
boiled with frustration as he desperately tried to decipher the best course of action. Sooner or later the creature outside was bound to stumble into the doors and then it would be right on top of them, and the only options left would be shooting at point-blank range or dying.

  Rushing out there to kill it—even if he could do that without resorting to firing the rifle—would surely mean making enough noise that more of them would come.

  Barring the door was the only option. If the creature heard the rifle being inserted through the handles it would be battering at the door immediately, and would probably be joined by more of its ghastly brothers in no time, but Michael could see no other option. Moving carefully, he aimed the barrel at the handles, and began sliding it through.

  Just like that old board game, he thought, the one where you operate on a man, and if your hand trembles a buzzer goes off. Except that this time, the buzzer will be the last thing you ever hear.

  Michael heard another thump in the room beyond, and then an ear-splitting shriek, and he froze. His heart hammered against his chest.

  In the dining room he heard what sounded like a scuffle, and then a loud thud. Moments later he heard a voice, whispering his name.

  “Michael?”

  Stunned, Michael motioned at Linda and the kids to stay put and cautiously cracked open the door.

  In the dining room, swaying a little uncertainly and clutching a large rock stained with blood, he saw Gareth Hughes, and Michael felt his jaw slacken.

  He stepped into the dining room slowly, scanning for any other movement and seeing none. On the floor to Gareth’s left, he saw the prone body of the infected creature, and finally allowed himself to breathe easier.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered back into the kitchen, and moved toward Gareth with a grin.

  “I guess you’re one of the good guys, now.”

  Gareth smiled a little sheepishly.

  “Any of the others with you?” Michael asked, and Gareth nodded. “A few, hiding next door. I saw it follow you guys in here, and I figured I had to…you know.”

  Michael clapped Gareth on the shoulder.

  “You did great, mate,” he said. “I honestly wouldn’t have thought you had it in you to kill one of those things.”

  Gareth grinned.

  “Neither would I,” he said. “I just shut my eyes and swung. A bit like when I played cricket at school. Never did make the team.”

  Michael felt a laugh building in his throat, but there was something else building too. An apprehension that quashed all the humour.

  Just one swing.

  It could still be—

  Michael span around just in time and far too late simultaneously. A fraction of a second later and he would have missed it: the infected creature—stunned and most definitely not dead—lurching upright and sinking its teeth deep into Pete’s calf as he stepped out of the kitchen.

  “No!” Michael roared, but the word was lost in another scream, high-pitched and horrified, a young boy’s scream that twisted until it became a familiar bloodcurdling shriek. It was a sound that Michael thought he would hear in his nightmares for the rest of his life, however long that might be.

  With a hoarse cry of despair, Michael aimed the rifle and squeezed the trigger, destroying the face of the creature on the floor.

  When he looked up, he saw Pete’s eyes for the last time, clouding with blood and seeming to swell in their sockets.

  And then the boy reached into his skull with his forefingers and ripped them out with a grunt of terrible relief.

  Michael was still screaming; oblivious to the noise and the Infected that might hear it; a wordless roar of pain and despair as he lifted the rifle once more and did what had to be done.

  *

  Rachel moved through the streets warily, pulling along her giant brother by the hand. It felt like leading a horse. Jason was compliant but apparently unaware. He had slipped once more into what she thought of as his standby mode.

  As heartbreaking as the emptiness on his face was, Rachel was glad that he had become so quiet. Her brother was able to detect the presence of the Infected somehow, she was sure. Just as Gwyneth had been. If Jason had once more retreated into his shell, it at least allowed her to believe that the immediate threat had passed.

  At what cost?

  As the small group headed back toward the river—and the sound of gunfire they had heard moments earlier—Rachel tried not to look at the corpses that littered the ground, but there were many she vaguely recognised, and soon enough she found herself examining every single body that she passed, dreading seeing a face that was more familiar to her.

  Some of the dead she had seen only briefly before they met their grisly end: sad, silent men and women with haunted eyes that had arrived at the castle with Annie Holloway.

  Some others, Rachel knew a little better: the young girls that Darren Oliver had harvested from Caernarfon to be his playthings. There was no sign of Michael.

  Please be alive.

  When they reached the river, right back at the spot that they had been gathered at when all hell had broken loose just a few short minutes earlier, Rachel found the ground awash with blood, and the town seemed eerily still.

  She resisted the urge to shout Michael’s name. Jason might be able to detect the presence of the Infected, but Rachel had no idea how far such an ability extended. Maybe not as far as her voice would carry.

  And besides, Jason’s response to the Infected was to draw them straight to him. If that happened again, Rachel didn’t think anybody would survive. At least, not anybody other than Jason. She pictured her brother alone, wandering the countryside like a ghost killing and killing, and felt bitter tears sting her eyes.

  “There,” Shirley whispered suddenly, pointing at a restaurant with a smashed window to their left. Rachel watched as the a dark shape appeared at the window and Michael climbed out, followed by Linda, Claire and one of Holloway’s men.

  Tears streamed openly down Michael’s face, and Claire’s narrow shoulders heaved with heavy sobs, and Rachel realised who was missing, and felt a lump in her throat.

  Chapter 38

  All told, eighteen people had survived the disaster on the riverbank in Caernarfon. More than half of the people that had set out from the castle had been killed outright, or had been executed by Jason once they had turned.

  A trip that had been full of fear and trepidation now felt marked more by sadness and weariness. A pall of despair hung over the group. Seventy-five miles to travel, and their number had been cut in two before they had even travelled one.

  They huddled together by the riverbank for a while and no one spoke, but Michael had an idea that they were all thinking the same thing.

  We can’t make it.

  He stared forlornly at Claire, who had buried her face in Linda’s coat. The sobs that had heaved through her had quieted, but Michael could still hear her snuffling.

  It could have been her, he thought. It was just dumb luck that it wasn’t her.

  Michael had felt like slamming the butt of the rifle into Gareth’s face after he had been forced to execute Pete, but the feeling faded quickly. It wasn’t Gareth’s fault. It was his own. He had let his guard down for just a second; long enough to overlook something so simple and so devastating.

  He hadn’t been able to keep Pete safe. Nor John or Gwyneth or any of them. Even the ones still alive, like Rachel and Jason, had been damaged or broken entirely. Linda had once pleaded with him that the survivors needed Michael to lead them, but what good was he if he couldn’t even protect a child standing no more than a yard away from him?

  The darkness that lived in his mind clawed at him, revelling in the moment.

  All your fault, Mike.

  Claire will be next.

  And now you’re just sitting here, waiting for the power station to blow and end it all, because that is the easiest way out, isn’t it?

  Michael blinked away tears that burned his eyes and tore his gaze a
way from the floor to find Rachel staring at him.

  “We have to go for the bus,” she said flatly. “Darren’s bus. It’s our only chance, Michael. The noise of the engine might draw the Infected, but so what? They attacked the bus when Darren was driving and he made it. Nothing has changed. We get to Liverpool, get a boat and go.”

  Michael stared at Rachel for a while and tried to find some hope in her words. Didn’t manage it.

  “The bus probably doesn’t work. We don’t have the keys.”

  “Then we’ll find something else,” Rachel snapped. “Goddammit, Michael, snap out of it. We have to go.”

  Rachel was right, but Michael felt anger burning inside him nonetheless.

  “And what about him?” he snapped, jabbing a finger at Jason. The big man sat apart from the rest of them, apparently oblivious to their presence.

  “What about him?” Rachel said, surprised. “He comes with us, of course.”

  She shrugged.

  “Rachel, he’s not Jason anymore, don’t you see that? I’m not even sure he’s human! All he cares about is the Infected. He drew them to us, Rachel. He did that. He got people killed. Almost got all of us killed.”

  Fire burned in Rachel’s eyes. Hot enough to melt steel.

  “And what if he knew they were out there? What if he only did that because he knew there were Infected in the town? What if he was trying to keep us safe?”

  “Then he failed,” Michael spat. “What happens next time? How many times is Jason going to get to keep us safe before there’s none of us left?”

  Rachel opened her mouth, and snapped it shut again without speaking. Her eyes drilled into Michael furiously until he spoke. When he did, he found that that the brief flash of anger he had felt had already begun to dissipate.

  “Rachel, you know he can’t come with us. Even if we take him now, sooner or later you’ll have to leave him behind. If Australia is free of the virus, and if by some miracle we can actually get there, do you really want to take the virus with you?”

  “I’m not leaving him here, Michael. After the guy has just saved my life—maybe all our lives, I can’t believe you want to either.”