She had tried to coax whispered conversation out of him, tried to reassure him that he had done nothing wrong, that killing their mother had been the only option, but Jason did not seem even to hear her pleas.
He was in shock, Rachel was sure, his mind retreating from the horrors of the world to the safety of some inner sanctuary, but as the hours wore on, she became more and more concerned for his mental health, and increasingly frustrated that she had no idea how she might be able to help him.
When two hours had passed, and the streets below remained empty, she ventured down into the house to get some water for Jason, and, in the isolation of the narrow kitchen, allowed the strength that she had tried to maintain for her brother leak away, to be replaced by overwhelming despair. She cried then, for her dead parents, her ailing brother, and herself.
What could have happened to the people of the town? Rachel had seen plenty of zombie movies: silly apocalyptic stuff featuring shuffling corpses hungry for human brains, and the way the people of St. Davids had turned on each other brought these to mind, but there was no such thing, not in the real world. Not the world of jobs and bills and microwave meals.
Besides, these people were not the walking dead, slurping on brains. When they were injured too badly, it seemed as though they died in just the same manner as anyone else. The frenzied bloodlust, the terrible violence: that seemed to come from some primitive place, as though logic, reason – humanity itself – had simply been turned off. Like the generator of civilisation had run out of fuel.
She wept softly for a few minutes, releasing the pent-up emotions that threatened to drive her mad, and then pulled herself together. Whatever had happened in the town, whether it was some mass hysteria or some terrible contagion, Rachel and Jason had survived the worst of it. And they would go on surviving.
On the roof, some hours later, she looked at Jason again, and the untouched glass of water, and doubt crept into her mind. Was there any point in surviving, only to find your mind broken by the savage, incomprehensible restructuring of the world around you?
What if the whole world was like this? What if St. Davids wasn't the start of the epidemic, but just another outbreak, nothing special about it at all? Was there another Rachel, cowering on a rooftop in London or Leeds or Glasgow, waiting for help to come? What if there was no help?
Rachel dismissed the thought angrily. Diseases – and this had to be some sort of hideous disease – didn't just happen. There was a starting point; a zero patient; an epicentre from which everything spread.
If the horrors unleashed on St. Davids over the past few hours had already occurred in other towns and cities it would have been all over the news for days, and she would have seen the signs. Quarantines, alert levels, and above all, panic buying, the all-too-familiar parasite that travelled alongside any national disaster story.
No, St. Davids had to be the start, the initial wound from which infection was spreading, and they had survived that. Beyond the borders of the town, somewhere out there in the empty countryside, far enough away to be safe, there would be a quarantine in place, she was sure of it. A military ring thrown over St. Davids as if it were a prize in one of those unwinnable games at fairgrounds. Some prize.
Help was out there. She just had to get to it.
She looked at Jason. Getting to help would be impossible if she had two hundred pounds of dead weight to drag along with her.
She had to bring him back to something like normality.
There was only one thing she could think of: the age-old remedy for a trance-like state of shock that always seemed to work in comedy movies.
It was all she could think of, and doing it made her heart ache, but it had to be done. She wound her arm back and slapped her brother's face with all her might.
Jason's head rocked backwards, and he blinked, his eyes coming to rest on her face.
"We have to go, Jase," Rachel pleaded. "We can't stay here. If the government or whoever has this place hemmed in they'll be forced back here, all those infected people. You understand? We can't stay. Please."
She grabbed his huge, limp hand and pulled. Jason's eyes remained unfocused and distant, and Rachel felt the despair well up inside her again, bubbling toward the surface like destructive lava.
She almost cried with relief when she felt his strong fingers suddenly return her grip.
*
Victor had been right about one thing: the show wasn't quite over. In fact, it had built to a wonderful finale. A pulse-quickening storm of activity. Fireworks.
At no point did Victor allow himself to worry that the mindless monsters stumbling through the woods were aware of his presence, and were in some way hunting him. He knew that wasn't the way they worked. The people, all those flesh and bone pieces of furniture that at one point had housed a supercomputer each, were now just empty-headed animals, operating on sub-human instinct. They were commanded by an imperative in their very DNA, something so fundamental that it was as vital to them as breathing.
External stimuli drew them in as a lit garden would draw insects at night. They had no strategy.
The first of them to stumble across one of his traps, detonating the anti-personnel mine with a deafening roar, merely started a chain reaction that was impossible to stop.
Every bang that shook the dark woods brought more of them toward it, milling around, confused, until another device was triggered. Cause and effect.
Victor had not placed the traps for them, and the careful artistry of the design and layout of his garden of death was wasted on the drooling imbeciles, which was a shame. But it was unlikely now that the SWAT teams he had expected to be killing in his garden would ever come.
Well, more than unlikely, he thought with a sneer.
At least the explosives were not going to waste, as dozens of the sightless critters kept stumbling toward them, the light of their demise illuminating the woods like the flash of a camera. Besides, he would be able to rearm the traps, not that there was likely to be any need.
Still, caution was paramount. It was caution that had gotten him this far, caution and his ability to perceive the intentions and strategies of those who thought themselves above the rest of their species. When the dust of Project Wildfire finally settled, and the rebuilding began, Victor would be able to emerge from his cocoon, forgotten by those who had hunted him previously, and those selfsame attributes would fuel his rise to power.
Their solution to the problem of humanity will make them complacent, he thought. We'll see how they evolve when new problems arise.
Victor had made his way to the surface building that marked the entrance to his bunker. Inside, looking through narrow slits in the brickwork that afforded him a close-up view of the party in the woods, he saw one of the creatures stumble across a mine, and blow apart like pollen in the wind, and he smiled.
*
Michael crept along the apparently empty street. His focus was divided equally between keeping an eye out for the crazed cannibals that had forced St. Davids to its knees, and straining to hear any indication that whoever was following him might have strayed out into the open.
It was clear that it was not one of the infected people that stalked him: already he felt he knew them, and subtlety was not their style. He tried to keep his movements as casual as possible, letting them believe that he proceeded unaware. He didn't look back. Every so often, as he passed an unbroken window he glanced toward it, hoping to catch his follower reflected in the glass, but the lack of light on the street made it unlikely, and he saw nothing.
He was walking down the ironically-named Broad Street, a narrow, claustrophobic road with thin pavements and buildings that seemed to crowd forward, looming over him, as though they were straining to reclaim the road itself.
As he approached the corner at the end of the street, and the right turn into Pembroke Way, he saw his chance. Once around the corner, there was a tiny strip of green land that served as a minuscule park area. Just a few bushes an
d trees and a couple of park benches. A place for the employees of the town centre's business to stop and eat their lunch. Little more than a garden.
As he turned onto the road, moving out of sight of his pursuer, Michael darted forward suddenly into the dark park, and hunkered down in the closest bush. It didn't provide much cover, and in daylight he would have been easy to spot, but in the dark, with his dark clothing, he had a chance at remaining unseen. He waited, holding his breath.
He heard nothing for several seconds, almost long enough to persuade himself that he had imagined the pursuit. And then, he heard the low murmuring. Whispering. One voice, barely audible.
There were at least two of them, then. Michael carefully slid the tasers out of his pocket, his thumbs resting on the buttons that would shoot the wicked prongs up to fifteen feet.
He focused on the entrance to the park, the narrow gap between the shrubbery. Barely discernible light filtered through the gaps in the bushes, and it was here that Michael first saw movement. A deeper blackness, a silhouette moving along slowly: edging toward him.
"Where'd he go?"
Michael heard the whisper clearly, but didn't hear any response. They had stopped just before the entrance to the park.
Michael gritted his teeth and crept forward, heart hammering painfully in his chest, the beating so loud he was sure it would give him away. When he was close enough, he abandoned stealth and leapt through the park's entrance onto the street, tasers raised.
In front of him stood a slight, pretty girl, about twenty-five years old, and the biggest man Michael had seen in his life.
The woman cried out, holding her hands up to protect her face, and stumbled backwards.
"Don't shoot!"
The giant didn't move, staring through Michael, almost as if unaware of his presence.
"Who are you? Why are you following me?" Michael hissed.
"Nobody!" The woman whispered, sounding shocked. "We just saw you coming out of the police station. You're with the police, right? Is help coming?"
Michael's shoulders slumped, and he lowered the tasers. He recognised them now, or at least he recognised the giant. It had been a couple of years since he last saw Jason Roberts, undertaking an enthusiastic but ultimately unsuccessful trial for the local rugby team. The kid was big then, but clearly hadn't finished growing. Now he was a bear, but there was something curiously absent about his demeanour, something that meant that despite his size, he gave the impression of being not really there.
The girl must be his sister, the one Paula Roberts spoke about so often. Off living the high life in London, working as a lawyer or something. They looked a little alike; despite the very different expressions they wore.
He looked around the street. It was still empty, but that wasn't enough to persuade Michael that it was safe to stop for a street-corner chat.
"Follow me," he whispered.
He led them in silence back to the police station, the only place he could be certain was safe, and after a quick check to make sure nothing nasty had slipped inside while he was away, the trio stepped into the building.
Michael lowered the bar into position once more, locking them safely inside. The girl fidgeted, her fingers in perpetual motion at her side, clutching at the fabric of her jeans, twisting and releasing. She continually cast glances around the small office area, as though expecting something to leap out at her. The giant remained impassive, standing like a statue, the vacant stare drilling deep into Michael's nerves.
Both were covered in blood.
Michael stepped over to the water cooler, and filled a couple of plastic cups with the cool, clear liquid. He handed one to the girl, who nodded gratefully. When the giant didn't acknowledge the cup, Michael placed it on the desk nearest to him.
"It's Rachel, right? Rachel Roberts, and Jason."
Rachel nodded.
"Couldn't fail to recognise the big man. And your mother speaks about you all the time."
Michael saw something in Jason's eyes then, a flicker. Something he couldn't quite identify.
"I'm Michael Evans. Are there more of you? Survivors, I mean?"
Rachel shook her head, and her eyes misted up. She blinked rapidly.
"It's just us. We were hiding on a rooftop during...when the..."
Her voice faded away.
Michael grimaced.
"I saw you, earlier," Rachel said quietly. "On the scooter. That was you, wasn't it?"
In truth, the scooter ride seemed like it had happened to a different person. Now that the chaos of the day seemed to have ended, Michael couldn't quite believe that he had driven a scooter – a fucking scooter! - into a pack of rabid killers. The memory of it, the glimpses of bodies being torn asunder all around him as he rode, made him shudder.
"Yeah."
"What were you doing?" Rachel asked. "Why weren't you running away?"
Michael stayed silent for a moment. His mind sought for the right approach to take, but there was nothing he could come up with to protect her. Nothing but the truth.
"I'm not sure there's anywhere to run to, Rachel," Michael said, keeping his voice as even as possible. "I came here to try the radio, call for backup, I don't know.” He paused. It was information he did not want to deliver.
"There was no response."
Rachel shook her head, as though she couldn't believe it, and for a moment Michael thought she looked very young, like a kid refusing a parent's command to eat their vegetables. It was a startling transformation. Her face, until then, had been hard, her expression forceful.
"I don't believe it," she said.
"Phones are down too," Michael said gently. "I think we're on our own here."
Rachel pursed her lips, and Michael noticed two things: firstly that the poor girl was close to hysteria and doing a good job of keeping a lid on it; and secondly that she had the same steely not-to-be-fucked-with eyes as her mother. Looking at her, at the mental toughness written on her face, he thought he could understand why she had made it through Hell that day.
He glanced again at her brother. Jason didn't carry the same strength in his eyes. Probably never had, Michael thought, given his failure at the rugby. Despite his size, it had been obvious even then that he lacked that killer instinct, the will to dominate the game as his physique suggested he should.
Now though, his eyes were empty and unfocused. He looked lost. Something terrible had happened to Jason, Michael could feel it radiating off him in waves. It was Rachel that had steered them to safety.
Michael lowered his voice, keeping his eye on Jason.
"Is he okay?" He whispered.
"I think he's in shock," Rachel replied, and for the first time Michael heard her voice breaking. "He had to...he was attacked."
Michael nodded. Now was not the time. After a moment, he wheeled the desk chairs out into the middle of room, and motioned for Rachel to sit. She guided Jason gently into a chair, which creaked under his weight, and then sat opposite Michael.
"Do you know what happened?" She asked hesitantly.
Michael shook his head.
"I think it's a virus. Something that...drives people mad, I don't know. It's in the blood I guess, transferred when they...bite."
Rachel nodded.
"We were on the street, heading for the explosion. Everybody walking together. It happened so fast, the way they just kept coming. Could a virus take hold so quickly?"
"Honestly, I don't know," Michael said. "This morning, there was someone in the woods, a guy who seemed to know what was going on. I think this was all planned somehow."
"Like a terrorist attack?"
Michael shrugged.
"Could be. Maybe. Whatever it is, I think it's man-made."
"So what do we do now?" Rachel asked.
Michael couldn't help but be impressed. Most people, he was certain, would have dissolved into hysteria having suffered through the kind of day Rachel must have just been subjected to.
"Like I said, I don'
t think help is coming. At least not for a while, if ever. If this thing has spread further, across the country...well, let's just say I don't think waiting is an option."
Rachel nodded.
"So," Michael continued. "My only plan at the moment is to find the guy in the woods and see what he knows. I figure that if we stumble around without a clear idea of what we're dealing with our luck won't hold for long.
"That's where I was heading when I ran into you."
He looked at Jason again.
"Maybe you and Jason should stay here. You can lock yourselves in, and I'll come back for you when I find out what's going on."
Rachel shook her head deliberately.
"We're coming with you. I've had enough of hiding and waiting to die for one day. "
"What about Jason?"
"Jason will be fine," she said firmly, and placed her small hand on her brother’s giant paw. "He just needs...a little time that's all. But he'll be okay. You think they're all gone? The infected people I mean."
Michael scratched his chin absent-mindedly. Stubble had sprung out across his jaw. The normality of it was suddenly jarring.
"I haven't seen any, and the town seems quiet. They make a lot of noise. They're all blind, but it seems like they can hear very well. Smell too, I think. So I'd guess they're moving away from St. Davids, seeking out other prey. I know where we can get a car, not far from here. It should be safe, I think."
Rachel set her jaw, and fixed Michael with a determined stare, as if challenging him.
"Then let's go."
10
Michael led Rachel and Jason to Glenda's driveway without further incident. The streets were as quiet as they were traumatising: blood and dead bodies were scattered on the ground at regular intervals, with the latter contorted, twisted into violent depictions of the last moments of their lives. The sights saddened Michael – he would never have imagined that the friendly, neighbourly residents of St. Davids would meet such grisly ends - even as he felt himself developing a tolerance to the impact of their brutality.
Panic Page 15
