by Terry Tyler
"What?"
"It's mutated."
Dex sits forward. "Mutated how?"
Verlander wrinkles his nose again, and sniffs. "Gotten nastier. Bleeding out of the jacksie is but one of the exciting new features of Bat Fever Type Two."
Dex is vaguely aware of his sphincter contracting. "How the hell did this happen?"
"Fucked if I know. I'm not a scientist. But viruses split into new strains all the time, don't they? Similar happened with Ebola, I believe.
"O-kay," says Dex. "So, what, is that it? Will more people who are currently immune die?"
"Yeah. Kinda."
"And?"
Verlander raises his eyebrows. "Do you want the good news or the bad news?"
"Doesn't everyone always say the bad first?"
"They do. Bad news is, the vaccinations for Type One don't protect you from Type Two—"
Dex feels as though someone has stamped on his chest. "You're kidding."
"Shitcha not. Good news is that we're squillions of miles from its nearest victim, which, unless I'm being lied to, is in Oman."
His whole body relaxes. "That's okay, then. Global travel being a thing of the past, and all that."
"Thank the Lord." Verlander frowns. "Talking of André, he wants Erika over there to set up the Juno Initiative. Two hundred kilometres south of Gay Paree. Which is, happily, still quite a long bus ride from Oman, even for those sneaky little bat fever microbes."
"Does she really have to go?"
"I wouldn't say it's essential, but she wants to. She's got itchy feet, my Erika." He drums his fingers again, and looks up at the ceiling. "André was running his hands up those silken thighs long before I was, and I'm guessing he's after round two. I'm thinking she might be after a little night-time variety, as well."
He laughs, so Dex does, too. "You don't mind?"
"Hell, no. Gives me a chance to explore a couple of new possibilities. Seen that chick Carla who came in from Lindisfarne? Yessy pleasy!"
"I admire your outlook."
"You're no diff; nature of the beast, bro. Anyway, it's all good; André's got more of a handle on the international sitch than I have, so Erika can do the lowdown-hoedown when she gets back. Including the progress on the vaccination-across-de-nation."
Sometimes, Dex wonders what Verlander was like as a child.
"Should I be worried?"
"Course not. André said that he ain't letting in anyone from east or south of there, no who, no way, no how. Hey, what the fuck? If the rest of the world goes to crap, UK2 will rule. Which will make me El Presidente, right? Yee-friggin'-hah!"
Chapter Twenty-Five
Vicky
Overnight, we have become closer, we thirty who are left. Between us there is no pretence, no argument, no secrecy; it's just happened that way, without anyone saying it must be so. Our world has grown smaller, and soon it may exist only within the confines of this island, if we are to remain safe. I feel we are huddling together to keep out the cold that is the rest of the world.
When we went back to the pub after Barney took away eighteen of our number, Jez said, "It's just the hardcore now. The real fucking survivalists!"
Audrey Willmott said, "I rather like that; I've never thought of myself as 'hardcore' before." And she did a high five with Jez; it was a good moment.
We're all impressed that she chose to stay. She's not the eldest here, Martin is, but she's an old sort of fifty-eight. As Lottie says, 'she was probably like your gran even when she was thirty'.
This morning, Kara told everyone about Dex. The time was right. No one blames me, or her, or Lottie and Jax, for keeping the information from them. It's good. This place is good. We can work together, now.
On this first day of this new stage in our lives, we put four on barricade watch and four at the entrance to the village; we don't believe we are in immediate danger, but you never know. Then Kara takes out a team of seven, in two of our largest vehicles, to find all the supplies they can, not coming back until they can't stuff in another tin of peas. Enough to last us a few months, if necessary, so that no one has to leave the island. We need everyone here, just in case.
Of those fourteen of us not on watch or out scavenging, the strongest four—Travis, Ozzy, Rob and Janek—chop wood. None of us like chopping the island's trees down, but we have to keep warm, heat water and food. We're also taking down wooden fences around empty houses, and dismantling any wooden furniture within. Meanwhile, Phil and Scott plan out the planting strategy for the new year; they gave Kara a list of stuff we need. Seeds, fertilisers, pickling jars, everything we lost. It's going to be a bleak few months, even into the spring and early summer before we have some crops again, but we're all feeling oddly positive. We can do it.
I'm so glad that we came clean about Dex. I don't think we could have moved forward in this way if we hadn't.
The only person I worry about is Jax. He talks about killing Dex, if he ever gets the chance. I don't want it to eat him up. And I'm scared that one day he will try to make that chance happen, and get himself killed in the process.
But it's not happening right now, because we're staying put.
I still go and talk to Heath, by his tree, which is daft, really, because I don't believe he's a spirit lurking around the place of his burial (I'm sure if he was going to lurk he would choose a nicer place) though I had some fanciful ideas about that shortly after his death. But he's still in my head, and that's who I talk to.
I think Martin wants something to develop between us, but I'm keeping him at arm's length. Lottie keeps encouraging me, in the way she does, but it's time I stopped bouncing from one man to another. I need a bit of breathing space. Meanwhile, I like having him as a very good friend. I do find him attractive and if I'm going to be with someone it will be a person like him, who has the right values, but not yet.
Rowan and I are okay again. I will never quite trust her, but I can deal with that. I will go and help out in the hotel, now. When life is as precarious as it is these days, petty shit doesn't matter so much. Honour between friends does, though, which is why we will never be back to how we were.
When the supply run group comes back, Lottie produces a hair highlighting kit. For me.
"I'm not listening!" she says, hands over ears, when I start protesting. "And don't give me any crap about wasting water, it does nothing but bloody rain here!"
When it's done, I look in the mirror and I can't help smiling. I look like me again.
Minus the waxed eyebrows, the suntan, the make-up, the excess weight, and the eager-to-please look that I used to wear when my life centred around the man in it.
As my daughter so rightly points out, I totally rock.
Something terrific happened today. We have two new arrivals! Just when we thought that anyone coming as far as the barricade could only be an aggressor, up pop Seren and Hawk.
Their arrival has cheered us out of all proportion, even though we now have two more mouths to feed. Seren is half Danish, half Welsh—her accent is English, with a slight Scandinavian lilt. Hawk is American, a traveller of the world. They were living in a community in Denmark—they're not a couple—but it was going bad, Seren said, and she kept thinking about Lindisfarne.
"I couldn't let her go alone," Hawk says. "Anyhow, she needed my boat."
The boat is anchored in an inlet called King Edward Bay, down the coast, in Tynemouth. They travelled the rest of the journey on dirt bikes.
"My mother was born here," she tells us, as we sit around the wood burner in the Hudson.
"Did you live here, too?" Lottie asks. "Must've been great being here as a kid."
Seren has the fine-featured beauty of many Scandinavians; her skin is perfect and lightly tanned, her bone structure delicate, and I can tell that her pale, ashy blonde hair will never require a L'Oreal highlighting kit. She's small, slim and trim. I find myself staring at her with a mixture of envy and admiration.
Travis, Ozzy and, indeed, all the guys, can'
t take their eyes off her.
"I can hardly remember it," she tells my daughter, and reaches up to smile at Luke as he hands her and Hawk mugs of hot chocolate. "My Welsh grandparents lived in a hippie commune here in the 1960s, which was when Mum was born; people came, people left—"
"Sounds like now," jumps in Ozzy, offering a plate of flapjack.
"Does it? Thank you, that looks wonderful. Yes, I did hope it would still be the same. Back then, the central core of the group swore they would never leave. My mother grew up here, fell in love with my father, and they had me; my memories are scarce, but I remember the feeling of community, and just the wonderful atmosphere of the place. I was only five when I left; my father decided he didn't want the life any more, and needed to go out into what he called the 'real' world." A wry smile. "Of course, it was actually the artificial world. But he took me with him, because he wanted me to have opportunities and make up my own mind how I wanted to live. So I studied, worked and played hard, had adventures, did everything that cool Millennials were supposed to do, but I think I must have that hippie gene in me." She laughs. "The rat race, the consumer lifestyle, life played out on social media—it began to grate, more and more. Five years ago, I found our community. But I always wanted to come back here. To revisit my childhood, if you like. See if there was anyone here who remembered Mum."
Kara is less charmed by this tale than most. "So you haven't been back since you were a kid? You never visited your mother, not once?"
A slight rose blush colours Seren's perfectly sculpted cheeks. She looks at Hawk, who nods at her. "My mother was a heavy drinker and a constant weed smoker. It's why my father wanted to get away. Get me away. She died shortly after we left. Fell down some stairs and hit her head. It happens." Then she looks at us all, as if appealing to us. "Visiting this place was something I contemplated as I grew up, but there was always another party to go to, another lover to call, another client to schmooze—I worked in advertising, then publishing, and I was as self-absorbed as many young people who work in those worlds. I could have painted a more appealing picture of myself but when your friend Jez brought me up to meet you, he told me you don't do bullshit here."
"Okay. Thanks for that." Kara stops for a moment. "Well, I'm afraid you won't find any of your mother's friends. There were only two original residents left when we arrived, and they're both dead now."
Seren looks crestfallen, and Hawk puts his arm around her. "I did tell you not to get your hopes up." He looks at Kara. "Can we stay on a while? We can earn our keep, and we've got our bikes, they're easy on gas—"
"I just want to be here," Seren says. "Can we? Just until we decide where to go next. We'll pitch in however you want; we can both fish, shoot, chop wood, and Hawk's a great cook."
Kara still looks sceptical. I've got a good feeling about these two, though. So has everyone else, I think, not least of all because of Seren's unrivalled beauty.
"Can I ask a question?" Lottie says, suddenly.
"Sure!" Hawk smiles; he's not exactly hard on the eye, either.
"You were in Denmark. What's it like? I mean, the virus. When did it get there? What was it like for you? How many people have died? Is there anything left, anywhere?" She looks at Kara. "Why aren't you all asking this stuff? This is our chance to find out what's going on in the rest of the world!"
Lottie has set a ball rolling; Seren and Hawk sit back while we bombard them with questions.
The upshot is that Denmark sounds just the same as the UK. People surged up to Norway at the beginning, like they did to Scotland, maybe in the hope that the cold would stop the raging virus. The major cities are war zones, or have been bombed. Survivors have grouped in rural settings, or on the islands.
Exactly the same as here, then.
After a while, Kara takes Phil, me and Scott aside; we step down into what used to be the Hudson's restaurant.
"What do you think?"
"Let them stay," says Phil. "We've let in people who seemed more dodgy, initially, haven't we? Remember how Lucas mouthed off when he first came here?"
"Not to mention weaklings like me who have bugger all to contribute," says Scott. "I say yes."
I agree. "They'll be a help, not a drain. Numbers make us strong. Thirty-two instead of thirty."
"Hmm." Kara folds her arms. "I'm not convinced about this community that went bad. They haven't said much about that, have they? I think there's something they're not telling us. They sound too good to be true. I'm all for taking in people who've got nowhere to go, or who are in danger, but this girl seems a bit precious, to me."
"I don't think so," I say. "They came here because of what Seren remembered. It being a good place, I mean. Shall we not disappoint her?"
"Not disappointing a self-indulgent stranger isn't my top priority right now, but yeah. Okay. Three against one. They stay."
When we walk back into the room, I see Travis talking to Seren, and they're all smiles. Faces closer together than they need to be. With his Viking-esque looks, they look perfect together.
I wonder...
Chapter Twenty-Six
UK Mercia, Lincolnshire
"We're getting out of here."
"How, Dad?"
Davina Lincoln could weep at the sight of her son's miserable face. Each day he sits in a classroom with bigger, tougher boys; they pick on him, and he cries into his pillow every night. Paul has just spent another five days in the hole, for fighting Sam's battles for him: father against father. Now, the family are huddled together around the small living room radiator that doesn't give out enough heat.
"One or two of the guards can be bought," Paul says. "Whisky, brandy. Pay the price, they'll look the other way. The fences at the far end, past the wasteground, aren't fully patrolled. Bob, he said that this place was thrown up, 'cause they had to get food production going, but it ain't been planned properly."
"Why doesn't Bob leave, then, if it's so easy?" Davina asks.
"Same as a lot of them. He lost his whole family and it's better to be in here with little than out there with nothing. And he's heard that some people from Central have got to go back there. Good behaviour, and all that."
"I'm not going back!" says Avery.
"No, we're not, don't worry, love. So, what do we think?"
"We can only afford the basics ourselves," says Davina. "Have you seen how many credits booze costs?"
"We can do it, I spent the whole day doing sums in my head. From now on, we buy only what we need to keep going, and nothing more—"
"That's all we have anyway!" wails Avery.
"Sorry, darling, I mean the absolute minimum. Lentils, pasta. Baked beans and spuds. No treats, no DVD rentals, not even a bar of chocolate or a bottle of pop. We drink only water, no coffee or tea. Washing-up liquid's cheaper than shower gel and shampoo. You've got a bit saved, haven't you, D? Couple of months, we can add more. Bob told me 'bout this couple who got out last month. He said two bottles of Scotch, a couple of packs of fags, bottle of Baileys for the guard's Mrs, and we're away. We buy it a bit at a time, or they might get suspicious. There's plenty turning to drink round here, I promise you. I won't seem no different. I can make a big deal about the Baileys being a present for you, to make up for it."
"Aren't you forgetting something?" says Davina. "Our chips. Soon as we leave, they'll find us."
"I'll talk to you about that when we're on our own. There's a way to get rid of them. Well, two ways. It's another bottle of whisky for the basic kit to take them out ourselves, but there's no anaesthetic—"
He stops, and looks down at the floor.
"What's the other way?"
He takes a deep breath and reaches for her hand. "We'll talk about it when we're on our own, love."
"No, Dad," says Avery, "I need to know too, I'm not a kid."
"I know you're not, but this ain't for your ears. Take Sammy down to the swings."
Sam sticks his bottom lip out. "Dad, it's freezing."
"It'll wa
rm you up, then. Go on. Be good kids. Just give us ten minutes."
They sit in silence until they hear their children's footsteps fade away down the corridor.
"Let's have it, then."
"Okay." Paul breathes in, sharply. "There's this old bloke, he works in the infirmary. He'll come to your flat to take 'em out for you. He's a doctor who got struck off—"
"What for?"
"I didn't ask. But he can get his hands on local anaesthetic, all the gear, and he can do it properly. Okay, look. I've already spoken to him. He'll do it. But it'll cost."
"How much?"
Paul is quiet for a moment.
"It's not goods he wants."
His eyes tell Davina all she needs to know.
"Not my daughter," she whispers. "Never."
Paul takes her hand. "He don't want Avery—"
Davina swallows. "Me?"
He nods; she hasn't seen him cry since Sam was born, but she thinks he might now.
"I nearly hit him just for suggesting it, I walked straight out, but then I talked to Bob and he said I should tell you, he said I should at least tell you—"
Unwelcome thoughts flit through Davina's mind.
—he will ask me to do this, but he beat someone up for just having their hands on Avery. He loves Avery more than me. He should have hit this doctor. He should have—
No matter, for now.
"How old?"
"What?"
"You said 'old bloke'. How old is he?"
"I dunno. He looks—y'know, old. Grey hair."
"What, like Martin on the island?"
"No, older than that. Seventy, maybe."
"Fat? Smelly?"
"No. Just a normal bloke." He leans in. "Look, we can do it ourselves. He'll get you dressings, antiseptic, stuff to stitch yourself up with."
"But no anaesthetic. Or antibiotics, in case of infection."
"No." Paul covers his face with his hands.
