The Peeling: Book 1 (Jeremy's Choice)

by Wright, Iain Rob

  “It’s true,” said a tall Black man next to her. “She’s been sneezing none-stop for the last hour.”

  Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Sneezing? A young girl sneezes and you all think you have the right to attack her? A big strong man like you?”

  “She deserves it. We could all be infected because of her. I have a family.”

  “Then you should be with them, instead of hanging around here and acting like a thug. Now help her up off the floor.”

  The man shook his head. “Fuck no. You pick her up. I’m not touching her.”

  Jeremy took a step forwards and stared the man hard in the face. “You just did touch her, with your fists, as I recall. Help her up now. I won’t ask you again.”

  The taller, larger man just laughed at Jeremy, then shoved out with both arms. Jeremy acted quickly, grabbing one of the man’s thick, bony wrists and pulling him off balance. Then he kicked out and took the man’s legs clean from under him, sending him down to the floor with a thump. Jeremy was just about to follow the man down and deliver a knockout punch when Sarah called out to him.

  “Jeremy, don’t! I’ll help the girl up and we’ll take her somewhere to lie down.”

  Jeremy looked up at the young news anchor and was confused. “Sarah, you have the news to be getting on with.”

  “We’re on a break. Tom can handle things for ten minutes.” She glared at the nearby crowd and shook her head. “You people should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  Sarah went over to the fallen girl and knelt one side of her. Jeremy knelt the other. Together they gathered the woozy young woman to her feet and walked her away from the baying crowd. There were a whole host of angry mutterings that followed after them, but no one had the guts to act out after what had happened to their ring leader.

  Jeremy and Sarah took the girl out into the corridor. “We can take her to my dressing room,” Sarah said.

  Jeremy nodded. It was a kind offer and that was why he had always liked Sarah. She was as friendly as anybody else, despite being a national sex symbol. Her ego had every right to be much larger than it was.

  They half-carried, half-dragged the girl into the dressing room and set her down on a plush sofa that filled one side of the space. She was weak and upset, but seemed to be coherent.

  “Are you okay?” Jeremy asked her.

  Her eyes had filled with tears, but she nodded. “I don’t think they would have stopped.”

  “Goddamn animals,” Sarah said. “They should be arrested.”

  The girl waved her hand. “It’s okay. I’m just going to go home and forget about it. Can I just rest here for a while first?”

  “Of course you can, sweetheart. Take as long as you need.”

  “Is it true what they said,” Jeremy asked the girl. “Do you have The Peeling?”

  “I…don’t know. I have the sniffles, but I’ve been sneezing for a few days now and nothing else has happened.”

  “You just have a cold,” said Sarah. “If you’ve been sneezing that long and haven’t come down with other symptoms then you’re fine.”

  Jeremy nodded and let out sigh. Despite millions of people being sick, it was still a relief to know that this one young girl was going to be okay – for now.

  The girl laughed pitifully. “I think people forget that The ppeeling didn’t make all of the other, regular illnesses go away. Not every sneeze means you have the plague.”

  “Exactly,” Sarah said. “Now you just relax here until you feel better. There’s water in the fridge and some cookies. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you, Miss Lane. You’re really kind – kinder than I would have expected you to be.”

  “Yeah,” Jeremy agreed. “A big celebrity like you, mixing with the common people like us.”

  Sarah bopped him on the arm playfully. “Don’t be silly. I’m C-List at best. Anyway, I have a feeling that the world will have little need for celebrities soon.”

  The girl frowned. “You shouldn’t think the worst. The world will get through this, one way or another. Not everyone is getting sick.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Sarah said, but didn’t seem to believe it. In fact she seemed close to tears. She took Jeremy by the arm and led him back out into the corridor. It seemed like she wanted to tell him something.

  “Is everything alright?” Jeremy asked her, noticing the tears that were brimming at her eyelids.

  “No, it’s not alright. Things are definitely not alright, Jeremy. You don’t know the half of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sarah leant back against the wall of the corridor and for a moment it looked like she might collapse completely. “I have the producers in my ear nonstop, telling me facts, figures, things to say – and what not to say. We’re not telling the public anything close to the truth.”

  “They know the truth. It’s right there in front of their faces.”

  Sarah shook her head. “They’re all locked up inside while police and military patrol the roads. All they see is what’s out their windows.”

  Jeremy wasn’t following. “So what is the truth?”

  “That there’s thirty-million dead, not four. The worldwide estimates are over half a billion. The USA and most of Europe are decimated.”

  Jeremy’s stomach swelled up against his ribcage. Vomit rose in his throat. “You’re telling me that half of the UK is infected already, in less than a week?”

  “The NHS has estimated that the virus affects one-in-two people. Everyone has a fifty-fifty chance. They’ve also put the chance of death at 100%. Anyone who catches the disease will die. No exceptions.”

  “But you haven’t been telling people that. You’ve been reporting the infections, but you haven’t said that all people are dying. You’ve even implied that there’s a good chance of recovery for some people.”

  “I don’t make the decisions about what to report, Jeremy. The peeling doesn’t just kill people instantly. They suffer for days first. The death toll has only just begun as the first people to catch it have had it for almost a week now and are only now starting to drop. We didn’t know at first that the virus would kill in all cases, but with the data coming through today, it’s clear that no one is surviving. The Government are trying to make the decision on whether to go public with the information or not.”

  “The Government? What right do they have to dictate to the news outlets?”

  “They can control information in a national crisis. They always have.”

  Jeremy stood wearily in the corridor, shocked and sickened. He had known The Peeling was a plague beyond anything ever seen, but he hadn’t thought it powerful enough to wipe out half of the world – 50/50. There would be no containing it, no cure – just unimaginable death and suffering that would linger in the consciousness of man for centuries. He looked at Sarah and could not imagine the burden she was forced to carry – to have such information, but unable to share it.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked her.

  “I’m going to finish up tonight and then go home. I’m finished after tonight.”

  “You’re quitting?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What then?”

  Sarah took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through her pointed nose. She stared at Jeremy for a moment, and then put her left hand to her right sleeve. She rolled up her cuff and exposed her wrist.”

  Jeremy shook his head in disgust. “No. You can’t have it!”

  The wound on her arm was puckered and wet, the skin gone, exposing the flesh of the muscle beneath. A tangy odour filled the room like spoiled bananas.

  “I’ve been hiding a cold the last couple days, but I didn’t know I had it for sure until this morning. Noticed it in the shower. It’s already spread twice as much since then.”

  Jeremy rubbed both hands down his face and imagined the skin peeling off beneath his fingernails. He was one of the lucky ones, so far; the right side of the 50/50.

  “You’re sure
there’re absolutely no survivors?” he asked. “There’s nothing the NHS can do? The World Health Organization?”

  Sarah shook her head and actually seemed somewhat resigned to her fate. Maybe she felt luckier to be one of the infected than one of the healthy – least for them the nightmare had an end in sight.

  “I’m already dead,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m infectious, but I don’t want to take the risk anymore. I’m going straight home tonight and staying there. It’s where I’d rather be, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jeremy told her and he truly meant it. “I…wish there was something I could do or say.”

  Sarah rolled her sleeve back down, covering her wound. “I’m just glad you don’t have it as well. As long as some of us get through this then I guess things aren’t completely doomed.”

  “My wife has it. She came down with it three days ago now.”

  Sarah put her hand on Jeremy’s shoulder and squeezed. “Then I’m sorry, too. You should go home and take care of her.”

  Jeremy glanced at his watch. “My shift isn’t-”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t think anything really matters anymore. This is just the calm before the storm. Things are about to fall to pieces and the only thing we can do is look after the people we love. Go home, Jeremy. Look after your wife.”

  Jeremy watched Sarah return to the studio and knew that it would be the last time he ever saw her in person again. He hoped her passing would be peaceful, but that was a luxury The Peeling gave to no one. She would feel pain beyond anything she had previously imagined, and then she’d die – adding to the statistics that she’d been reporting for the last week.

  It was time to go home. Sarah had been right about nothing mattering anymore. If those people in the studio wanted to start fights then let them. Jeremy wasn’t about to waste another minute watching over a bunch of unruly strangers turn on each other. The news studio was on the second floor so he had to take the stairs downwards to reach the building’s exit. The reception area was empty, its staff all sick and dying at home. Jeremy knew most of them, but not well enough to grieve them. He headed for the heavy glass doors that led outside to the parking lot.

  Outside were several vehicles belonging to people inside. Sarah’s Jeep Cherokee was parked next to Tom’s more audacious Jaguar, and beyond them both was Jeremy’s Ford Focus. He took out his keys as he headed over and pressed the fob. The car’s lights flashed twice and the doors were unlocked. He opened the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel.

  Turning the ignition, Jeremy started the engine. The needle on the fuel gauge headed towards empty and stopped a little ways off. He laughed. Some things would never change, no matter what happened to the world; cars would always run out of fuel, and fuel would always cost a bomb (especially now that the military had commandeered it all).

  The military were everywhere now, as were the police. It was to be expected, Jeremy supposed, but it was still disconcerting to watch olive green, 3-tonne trucks patrolling every main road. With the UK’s history of riots, the Government were taking no chances. There was even a sentry posted at the news station’s car park, controlling the bright-red automatic barrier instead of the usual civilians that had done so before.

  Jeremy pulled the car into gear and drove towards the barrier. The armed soldier there stepped up beside the car as it approached. Jeremy lowered the electric window and leant out with his security ID. It wasn’t his usual station ID, but a new state-issued ID that allowed him to leave his home and travel to work. They called it a Vital Services Identity Card – pronounced V-SIC. It was a privilege to have one in many ways, but a burden too. Being outside was a constant danger for many reasons (number one being exposure to the peeling). Still, if Jeremy was going to come down with the sickness, he surely would have had it by now.

  “Everything okay in there?” the soldier asked him, motioning to the building with his head.

  “There was a bit of trouble earlier. People are getting scared. Might be a good idea to post a man inside.”

  “No can do,” said the soldier. “Orders are to remain outside at all times unless absolutely necessary.”

  Jeremy understood and nodded. “Can’t have people thinking that the military are controlling the press.” Even though they are, thought Jeremy.

  The soldier gave no reaction, his expression implacable. “Drive safely, sir. Go straight home.”

  Jeremy nodded and moved the car slowly forward as the metal barrier rose in front of him. Once past it, he pulled into third-gear and increased his speed. It was easy to drive fast, because the roads were empty. Travel was restricted to prevent the spread of infection and only certain vehicles were allowed on the road at all. Jeremy’s Ford Focus qualified and had a luminous green circle on both the front and back. It told any passing military that he was allowed to use the roads, and for the most part they left him alone. In fact, a convoy of trucks were heading toward him right now and seemed unconcerned by his presence on the highway. The driver of the lead truck nodded to him as they passed and it was only a few moments before he was the only car on the road again, driving along the withered husk of the nation’s once-heaving infrastructure. He lived almost forty-miles away from the news station, but with the roads wide open, he would get there in thirty minutes.

  He turned on the radio, but quickly switched to CD mode. The last thing he wanted was more news – or uninformed hypotheses masquerading as news. The sound of Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear The Reaper came on from a mix-disc he’d filled full of rock songs. It seemed pretty apt for the mood he was in and he let it play to its conclusion.

  ***

  After taking the dual-carriageway most of the way home, Jeremy took a slip road into Stratford. As he crossed over the bridge into the centre of town he could see that the police were patrolling the River Avon in modified barges. Every single day, the police and military presence seemed to increase and it now seemed that Britain’s waterways were just as restricted as its roads.

  Much of the routes through town were cordoned off and Jeremy was forced to manoeuvre his car along the riverbank, passing in front of the Globe theatre. The historic, thatched-roofed building lay abandoned and mournful, its function to entertain no longer required. Jeremy suddenly regretted never having been inside before to experience the lively works of Shakespeare. There would probably be a lot of things he’d never experience now.

  Something flew out from behind the theatre and stumbled into the road. Jeremy hit the brakes.

  Standing in the centre of the narrow side-street was a peeler – a victim of the plague. Whether it was a woman or a man was unclear now, but the long matted hair suggested the former. Jeremy gawped in horror as the figure approached with the shambling gait of a zombie. But this thing – this human being – was worse than a zombie. This thing was living agony and conscious terror, and it walked towards Jeremy like a nightmare made flesh. It was the worst case of the infection that Jeremy had yet seen. The woman had not a single inch of skin left intact, her muscle – and even bone – exposed from head to feet. Eyeballs bulged from her glistening skull like gelatinous orbs of pus. They focused on Jeremy.

  The woman staggered towards him, her bleeding arms stretched out pleadingly. She made no sound, perhaps incapable of doing so. Behind her was a trail of viscous fluids and spoiled meat. It was a miracle the woman was even still alive, let alone able to walk.

  Jeremy put the car into reverse, preparing to flee. He could not help this person, they were already dead. Even if a cure was found, this woman was beyond the point of salvation. “I’m sorry,” he said out loud, then lifted up the clutch. The car began rolling back, away from the woman.

  She followed after him for a few more steps, seeming to lose more flesh and blood with every movement. So transfixed was Jeremy on the horrible sight that he almost didn’t see what was in his rear view mirror. He slammed on the brakes again.

  Behind him a military truck blocked the road where he had com
e from. A single soldier hopped out from the elevated cabin and landed on the cement with his heavy jackboots. The man had a scruffy beard and his sleeves were rolled up past the elbows. The standards of appearance for the British Army had obviously been forgotten in the last week. It was hardly surprising.

  The infected woman was still coming closer, still reaching out her arms. The soldier moved in front of Jeremy’s car and faced down the woman. He pulled out his sidearm, a mean-looking pistol, and pointed it forward casually. Then he let off a shot. A single bullet did the job, hitting the woman in her cheek and passing through her skull. Gore and grey matter painted the road, adding to the mess that was already there.

  Jeremy’s breath caught in his throat and he could actually feel his heart beating against his chest. He was not used to the sight of guns and he’d never before seen one used to kill another human being. Numbness washed over him that was probably the beginnings of shock.

  The soldier holstered his weapon and marched over to Jeremy’s window. Jeremy unwound it and quickly grabbed his ID card from where it lay on the dashboard. His hands were shaking.

  “Thank you, sir. Everything seems to be in order. Are you on your way home?”

  Jeremy stared out at the dead woman on the road and found himself unable to blink.

  “Sir?”

  “Huh? Oh, yes. I’m going straight home now.”

  The soldier seemed to notice Jeremy’s concern and knelt down to match his eyelevel. “It was for the best, sir. Like putting down a sick dog.”

  “A…a dog?”

  “It may seem cruel, but when the infection gets that bad, it’s kinder to just end it. A lot of them have started to lose their minds now – who can blame them – but they’re becoming dangerous. If you see any more of them I advise you keep on going as fast as you can.”

  Jeremy swallowed. The soldier spoke about the infected like they were things, not people, but was that really so surprising? Anyone with the disease was insane with agony and doomed to die anyway – had any humanity at all still existed inside the woman now dead in the road?