The Plague Series (Book 1): The Last Plague

by Rich Hawkins

  “All of this,” Roland added. “It’s the Devil’s work.”

  Ralph snorted.

  “Don’t be so cynical,” said Mary. “The Devil’s come up to see us, and he’s spreading his evil, making people become demons. Making them kill and spread the evil to others.”

  “The Devil’s out there,” Roland said, raising one finger and gesturing outside. “He’s walking upon the earth, recruiting for his unholy army, and he wants our souls. Maybe we’ll all meet him eventually. Maybe he’ll come knocking on our door soon…”

  A shiver passed through Frank. He felt stupid for being so easily spooked. He glanced at Ralph, and Ralph’s grin was like scar tissue. It was a mocking grin. Frank willed him not to say anything.

  “The Devil?” Ralph asked incredulously. “Bollocks. Utter bollocks.”

  “Why are you so doubtful?” Mary said.

  Ralph sighed. “So, if the Devil is really the cause of this plague – or evil, as you call it – where is God while all this happens? Is God ignoring us? Doesn’t God care? Is God just watching while everybody dies?”

  “I’m sorry about Ralph,” Frank said to Mary and Roland. “He’s an opinionated atheist.”

  Their faces were blank. But there was piousness in their eyes.

  “I’m not an atheist,” said Ralph.

  “Then what are you?” Roland asked, and one corner of his mouth curled upwards. “Please tell us. We’d like to know what you are.”

  “I’m an anti-theist.”

  “What is that?”

  “It means that not only do I not believe in your god, but I also find the idea of your god, and any other god, appalling. If he’s real then why did he let my parents die? What did they do wrong? Were they demons? Were they possessed? Were they evil, like you said?”

  Neither Mary nor Roland answered.

  “That’s enough,” said Frank. He looked at the old couple. “I’m very sorry about Ralph, if he’s caused any offence.”

  Ralph was glaring at Frank. He could see him in his peripheral vision.

  Roland and Mary smiled together.

  “No offence taken, Frank.” Roland’s voice was calm and soothing. “We understand that young Ralph is suffering the loss of his parents.”

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” said Ralph. “Don’t talk down to me.”

  “And we sympathise with you, Ralph,” Mary said. “Your mother and father were good people. They didn’t deserve what happened to them. No one stricken by the evil deserves it.”

  “We’re sorry if we upset you,” said Roland. “Please accept our apologies.”

  Ralph said nothing. He folded his arms and lowered his head to look at the floor.

  *

  Darkness fell three hours later. Florence was asleep. Frank, Joel and Ralph formed a circle on the living room floor sipping cups of Bovril as they studied the map.

  Mary and Roland hadn’t taken Ralph’s insulting behaviour personally. They were resolute in what they believed, and Frank couldn’t help admiring them for it, even if he didn’t agree with it.

  “I miss Magnus,” said Ralph.

  Joel blew steam from his drink. “Feels strange without him.”

  Frank nodded.

  Ralph scratched his face. “We’ll never see him again, except maybe in dreams and nightmares.”

  They drank. Florence muttered in her sleep.

  “We’ll leave in the morning,” said Frank. “Find a car somewhere.”

  “It’s a long journey,” Ralph said. “What if the camp isn’t there when we arrive? What if everyone’s gone?”

  “Please don’t say that,” Joel whispered.

  Frank sipped his Bovril. “It’s a possibility. They might have already been evacuated from the country by the time we arrive.”

  “Do you think only Britain has been affected?”

  “It’s probably global,” said Ralph.

  “It’s irrelevant,” Frank cleared his throat. The other men looked at him. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?”

  “And what about Florence?”

  “What about her?”

  “Have you thought about leaving her here with the Jesus freaks? Is it a good idea to bring her along with us, all the way to Sidmouth?”

  “She’s coming with us.”

  “She’ll slow us down.”

  “No more than you will, Ralph. She probably would be safer here, and I have considered leaving her with Roland and Mary, but I promised to look after her.”

  “You could let her decide.”

  “No. She’s too young to make that decision. I know what’s best for her.”

  Ralph stared at him. Frank looked away.

  “I think we should get some sleep,” said Joel. He yawned, stretched his arms. “Big day tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like we’re going on a day trip to the seaside,” said Ralph.

  Frank smiled, finished his drink. “Joel’s right. Time to get our heads down.”

  Just as they settled down on the living room floor, a deep roar came out of the night, resonating from somewhere in the village. It was the cry of something stalking the back roads in the dark.

  Frank blew out the candle. He shut his eyes, feeling sick that Magnus was gone, but also exhilarated by the possibility of finding his wife tomorrow.

  There was little chance of sleep tonight.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Frank woke in the morning and thought Magnus was in the room, skulking in the corner and sniffling. When he realised Magnus was gone, something within his chest shrivelled.

  The others woke up around him. Ralph cleared his throat, then realised he couldn’t spit it out, and swallowed it instead. Joel was ashen-faced and lethargic, dark patches under his eyes. Florence looked frail, all bones and skin.

  They breakfasted on biscuits and apples brought in by Mary and sat in the living room while an early morning mist rolled down the streets. There was a sense of anticipation and expectation in the air, mixed with the fear of what waited for them on the road.

  *

  Roland gave them his car, and they accepted gratefully.

  They left the house not long after the sun broke the horizon and burned away the mist, throwing the day’s first shadows upon the ground. The chill in the air sharpened itself against Frank’s skin, cleared his nose and made his eyes water. His breath was white vapour.

  Roland and Mary donated some extra supplies, including a spare tank of petrol. Henry stood at the foot of the garden and watched the street, his shotgun at his hip.

  Ralph, Joel and Florence waited in the car while Frank said goodbye to Roland and Mary.

  “Good luck,” Mary said as she hugged him. Her body was soft and motherly against him. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. Frank blushed.

  Roland shook his hand. “Stay safe out there, lad.”

  “Thanks for everything,” Frank said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Mary replied. “We’re glad to help.”

  “Go with God,” said Roland.

  Frank climbed into the car and looked back at them through the rear window.

  They waved. Florence waved back at them.

  Ralph moved the car down the driveway, passing Henry, who nodded at them without expression.

  “I hope the monsters don’t get them,” said Florence.

  Frank smiled at her. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  The road ahead was silent and dead.

  *

  Back through the village, they passed Magnus’s house and looked at it one last time, wondering if he was in there with his family. Going past his own home, Frank could not help watching the windows, hoping to see Catherine’s face peering out at them.

  Joel glanced at his still-burning house as the car went on.

  No one spoke. The men said a silent goodbye to their home village. Frank wondered if they would ever return. He wasn’t optimistic.

  The village was dead and rotting, and the abandoned
houses were nothing more than memorials to the people who once lived there.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  They travelled through many more ruined places inhabited by scattered and ragged groups of infected. Some ran at the car as it passed, bolting from doorways and passageways, reaching for the car with raking hands. Shambling scarecrow-like figures scrambled out of houses painted with splashes of red.

  A few miles on, Ralph stopped the car next to a field covered with stubbly grass. Two figures headed towards them, gangling silhouettes against the horizon.

  “What are you doing?” Joel asked him.

  Ralph didn’t answer as he stared at the figures. His face was creased, lilywhite and angry, the eyes within it seething and bloodshot. He grabbed the baseball bat, opened his door and climbed out before Frank could stop him. And by the time Frank followed him outside, Ralph was already in the field and approaching the infected, swaying the bat in his hands.

  Frank broke into a run and went after him.

  *

  The infected growled at Ralph. The first one, a woman in a torn t-shirt stretched over her crooked shoulders, went at Ralph with hands formed into fleshy claws. She frothed and screamed, her eyes bleeding down her skeletal face.

  Ralph swung his bat against her arms, breaking them with a sickening crack. She howled, but still came towards him, gibbering and crying. He went at her with such intensity and rage that when he had finished with her, and his bat was dripping with red, she was nothing more than a shattered heap on the dirt.

  The other infected, a man with needle-sharp black quills protruding from his back and a damp gurgling in his throat, lunged at Ralph. His face was malformed into a mask that looked like it was made of melted wax. His mouth parted in small gasps in which his tongue slithered through and tasted the sore skin around his lips.

  Ralph smashed his head in. His skull bled onto the cold ground. His legs twitched and jerked.

  Frank took a step back when Ralph turned and stared at him with eyes bearing the look of sickness.

  “Are you okay?” Frank kept his voice as low he could.

  Ralph exhaled through his mouth. “Am I okay? I’m fucking dandy, mate. Thanks for asking.”

  “I’m sorry about your parents.”

  “They didn’t deserve to die, Frank.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why did they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I had to kill my mum. She was infected. She killed and partially ate my dad. She had loved my dad. They had loved each other. And I had to kill her like she was a diseased animal.”

  “I’m sorry,” Frank said.

  “It’s not just my parents; it’s Magnus as well. He’s gone. He’s one of them. What’s happened to the world? What’s happened to us? I want things to go back to what they were like before. Everything’s fucked, mate.”

  “Let’s go back to the car.”

  “I hate them,” said Ralph. “I want to kill them all. I don’t want to stop until I’ve wiped them out.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ll be dead by the end of the week.”

  “Don’t say things like that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “No, it’s not. I made a promise to take care of Florence.”

  Ralph laughed bitterly and shook his head. “Of course, it comes back to the girl.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You think, somehow, that she’s your daughter. I don’t know how. But you’re wrong. She’s not your daughter. Your daughter is dead.”

  “Shut up.”

  “She’s dead. Emily’s dead, Frank.”

  “Shut up.”

  “She’s gone. Wake up. You’re a fucking fool.”

  Silence fell over them. Frank’s hands were shaking as he tried to suppress the anger urging him to punch his friend. The men held eye contact for a while, both unwilling to look away first. The only sound was the cawing of crows from the edge of the field.

  Ralph lowered his gaze to the ground, shame burning his face. He spat.

  “Let’s go back to the car,” said Frank.

  Ralph nodded. Neither man spoke as they left the field.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  It was Joel’s turn to drive the car. Ralph sat in the front passenger seat, watching thin pillars of smoke on the horizon. Birds hung in the air. Several ragged sheep wandered in a field of lush grass.

  The car wormed through South Somerset and into Devon. They were fifteen miles from Sidmouth and heading for the coast. Speckles of rain patted against the windscreen, but the downpour that threatened didn’t appear.

  They passed a burnt out truck with charred corpses spilling from its open back. Crumbling remains. A charcoal effigy leaned against the truck, white teeth grinning, and tufts of hair jutting from its scalp. Drifts of ash like shapeless ghosts.

  The silence and stillness of the abandoned road was enough to make Joel’s heart shrivel. Thoughts of Anya filled his mind. All he could think about was holding her, kissing her.

  When the car rounded a corner, an army armoured vehicle blocked their way. One of the three soldiers standing next to it held up his hand for Joel to stop. The two soldiers to either side of him raised their rifles.

  Joel slowed the car to a halt.

  “I hope they’re a welcoming party,” Frank said.

  *

  The camp had been set up in the fields outside Sidmouth. A sprawling, stinking mess of mud, ramshackle tents, open latrines and approximately one thousand refugees, according to the soldiers. The remaining soldiers stationed at the camp had been dragged together from the surviving remnants of different units in the area. Some were fighting the infected in the town.

  The armoured vehicle made its way down the hill towards the camp, which filled two fields with blocks and rows of tents. A chain-link metal fence marked its perimeter. Just beyond the north side of the camp was an area of grey land, from which plumes of smoke drifted. The soldiers were burning something down there.

  Florence had a look of wonder and awe on her face.

  “The camp’s a shithole,” said Private Underwood, a young man with dark skin and green eyes. He kept wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “But it’s better than trying to survive on the streets.”

  “Too right,” Corporal Graves said from the front passenger seat. He was a bull-necked, softly-spoken man. “The infected are everywhere. That place down there is paradise compared to some of the other emergency camps I’ve seen set up since the outbreak.”

  “What happened to the other camps?” asked Joel.

  Graves hesitated. “Most of them are gone. Wiped out.”

  The few soldiers at the camp’s front gates watched the vehicle approach. Tired-looking men, more like ghosts than living people.

  Private Bunce stopped the vehicle at the gates. Graves spoke to one of the guards as another soldier confiscated the civilians’ improvised weapons, including Ralph’s baseball bat. He complained, albeit quietly, before they were waved into the camp.

  “Underwood’s right,” he said. “It is a shithole.”

  Bunce parked next to a portable cabin situated between two haggard shacks. A child was crying somewhere nearby. A dog was barking. They exited the vehicle. Frank smelled wood smoke.

  Corporal Graves pointed towards the cabin. “You’ll be registered in there, but you’ll have to be checked for infection before that. Follow me.”

  He led them to another portable cabin. Inside two middle-aged women were playing Hungry Hippos on a rickety table. The women looked up, annoyed at being disturbed. One of them glared at Graves.

  “More stragglers,” the woman said. She was grey-haired and plump.

  “That’s right, Violet. Now, if you’d be so good as to check them for infection…”

  Violet eyed him, didn’t move.

  Graves sighed. “Please?”

  “That’s better,” she said, and stood
. “Right, you newbies take your clothes off. We’re gonna take a look at ya.” She glanced at the other woman, who had also risen to her feet. “Sandra, you take the girl in one of the cubicles. I’ll check the men.”

  Sandra went to Florence and took her hand. Florence resisted, looked at Frank.

  He nodded. “It’ll be okay. Go with the nice lady.”

  “I ain’t been nice for years,” said Sandra.

  Florence snatched her hand away and stepped back. Sandra glowered at her. Frank went to Florence and put one hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be okay. We’re not going to leave you here. I would never leave you here on your own.”

  Sandra rolled her eyes. “Oh, please…”

  Florence gazed at Frank, her bottom lip quivering. She blinked and gave the faintest of nods. “Okay. You promise to stay here?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  Sandra led her into a cubicle and closed the blue plastic curtain behind them.

  Violet looked at Graves. “You stay here, in case they’re infected and something happens. One of the last survivors you lot brought in nearly tore my face off.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” said Graves. “You do embellish, don’t you?”

  “I’ll remember that when one of these fuckers bites me in the arse.”

  “It’s big enough.”

  “Cheeky fucker.”

  Graves grinned.

  Violet put on a pair of surgical gloves. “Okay, lads, strip off and show me what you’ve got.”

  *

  After being given the all-clear they went to the registration cabin. A greasy-haired man sat behind a desk cluttered with pens, stacks of paper and notebooks. He was called Simms, and he noted their names in a register, writing with the methodical nature of a seasoned administrator who takes too much pleasure in numbers and pie charts.

  Joel and Frank asked about Anya and Catherine.

  Simms regarded them with pale eyes behind glasses held together with duct tape. There was a yellow bruise on his chin. His beard stuck to his lined face in wispy patches and clumps, black and white in colour.