World War Moo: An Apocalypse Cow Novel

by Michael Logan

  “You’re one of the few I do trust. I just need to be there.”

  Glen looked piqued, but Tony couldn’t reveal his real reason for wanting to be present. He had to see the submarine slide under the water with his own eyes before he could start threatening Piers. Most of all he needed to be standing beside Glen in the control room when he told him the missile wouldn’t be fired. Glen had been so excited at the prospect of playing with his new toy that, in his childish tantrum at being denied, he might decide to fire it off anyway. Tony wanted to be the one holding the radio at that moment.

  As Glen left, Frank pushed past him, his face red, and threw a copy of The Sun down on the table. “The fucking tabloids have got ahold of it.”

  Tony put his elbows on the desk and rested his head on his hands, staring at a drawing of a giant Uncle Sam standing with his foot over Britain, which was portrayed as a beetle lying on its back, legs flailing in the air.

  “Bollocks,” Tony said. “I’ll make a live address. Tell them it’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it?” Frank said.

  “Of course it is. But we need to avoid panic. Let’s get our arses over to the BBC studio pronto.”

  They ran out of the door together. The last thing they needed was millions of people on the move again. Tony didn’t feel bad about lying and telling people to stay put. The bombs they thought would be falling on them would never come. He would make sure of that. Tony began composing his speech in his head, his intention to call Amira back forgotten in the heat of the latest crisis.

  26

  Ruan was hacking at a tree with her saber in a quiet corner of the commune when Geldof found her. The first she knew of his presence was when she swung the sword back for another swipe, prompting a yelp of fear. She spun round to see a lock of ginger hair float from his fringe to the ground.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” Geldof said, although the look of abject terror on his face suggested otherwise. “I needed a haircut anyway.”

  She grunted in response and buried the edge of her blade in the tree trunk. She left it quivering there and rolled her shoulder, which was aching from half an hour of brutalizing the vegetation.

  “I thought you were a tree hugger, not a tree stabber,” he said, looking at the raw wound in the bark.

  “It’ll live. Maybe.”

  They’d been thrown together again the previous day when Fanny assigned Geldof to help Ruan with her chores. She suspected an obvious attempt to get them together, but she hadn’t really minded. Despite his shaky start, he displayed a level of maturity she hadn’t encountered in boys of his age. Even the obvious effort he expended in not looking at her breasts seemed born from a desire to respect her boundaries rather than from the fear of being caught like a startled rabbit in the dazzling glare of her headlamps. Or perhaps she was being too kind. Still, there was something different about Geldof. She couldn’t quite figure out what it was at first. After all, he looked very much like a boy: the hair follicles on his face were still in hibernation, his cheeks were as rosy as Rory’s, and there wasn’t so much as the rumor of a wrinkle on his smooth face. Admittedly, his body wasn’t the typically lanky and awkward frame of a boy with years of growing still to go. She knew a swimmer when she saw one; he had that characteristic triangular shape that spoke of long hours pulling his upper body through the water. It was only when he closed his eyes for several seconds that she got it. With his lids down, he looked barely fourteen, never mind sixteen. When he opened them again, the years piled back on. His eyes were those of somebody twice his age.

  It struck her again how much her world had changed. All of her experience with boys her age came before the virus, when the worst thing they had to worry about was exam grades or whether the risqué pictures they’d texted to their girlfriends were going to be circulated around the school. Geldof had been through so much more. When she asked him to tell her what had happened after the virus, he just started talking matter-of-factly. The more he talked, not even flinching when he described his father dying, the more she felt a desire to open up herself. It would be good to tell somebody who could understand what she’d been through. But when he finished and looked at her with an unspoken question between them, she hesitated. Sensing her reluctance, he’d moved on the conversation—another sign that he was unusually in tune for a boy of his age.

  “I know you’re upset,” Geldof said. “We all are. But we’ll find a way. If Lesley’s story doesn’t stop them, I’ll make sure the mercenaries get you out. You’re immune. They’re bound to take you in to France or wherever.”

  “Yeah, so they can stick needles in me and poke about in my brain to find out why I don’t get it? No, thanks. I’d rather just be anonymous.”

  “Then I’ll get them to take you somewhere quiet, where nobody knows who you are.”

  “It isn’t about me,” she said, dropping to sit on a log.

  “Then what is it about?”

  “My parents.”

  “It’s hard to lose people you love.”

  “No. You don’t understand.”

  Geldof sat beside her, keeping a respectful distance. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Looking at the poor tree that had borne the brunt of her frustration, Ruan once again felt the need to share. It was either that or she would end up deforesting half of Scotland. She began to talk, and, once the cork was out of the bottle, she couldn’t stop.

  * * *

  Ruan only stopped when she reached the point where her parents had chased her down the stairs, too emotionally exhausted to continue. At some point in her narrative, Geldof had taken her hand. She’d let him, grateful of the contact. Now she realized she’d been gripping it tightly and that he wore an expression of patient discomfort. She let go.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “No, I’m sorry,” he said, shaking out the injured hand. “That’s horrible.”

  “It was my own fault. I shouldn’t have gone back, shouldn’t have listened to the stupid voice in my head that told me they would be fine.”

  “You had a fever.”

  “No, I’m just stubborn.”

  “Must be why you like my mum so much.”

  They fell silent for a moment. Even thought it had been painful to recall what happened she felt lighter for having unburdened herself.

  “What did you do then?”

  “I tried to get the virus.”

  Geldof’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “I’d only seen the infected in the camp, so at first I didn’t know they only took a proper maddie when there was somebody around to infect. When I realized that I thought that if I got myself infected we could be together again.”

  “You’re immune though.”

  “I know. But I was lonely and desperate. I figured if I got attacked enough times, maybe it would stick. So I went out of the city, looking for somebody to infect me. I came across this skinny little woman on her own out in a field. I let her bite and scratch me, but she just wouldn’t stop.”

  “Because the virus wouldn’t cross over.” Ruan nodded. “How did you get away?”

  This was something else Ruan didn’t want to remember, but she’d come this far and needed to get the poison out. She swallowed hard. “I killed her. I didn’t mean to. I just started fighting back, hard. She fell over and hit her head on a rock. It was easy while she was still attacking me: she had that look the infected all have, like she wasn’t human. When she died, though, her face relaxed and she was just this fragile farmer again.”

  “How did it make you feel?”

  “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Then I hope you never have to. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “How did you make it through all of that time without going insane?”

  “Mental discipline. I’m very good at pretending things aren’t happening.”

  “And you plan to do that for the rest of your life?”

&
nbsp; “What else can I do?” Ruan said, her voice small.

  Tentatively, Geldof reached out again and took her hand. It felt good to be able to relax and touch another human without still clinging to a faint worry about the possible consequences, as she did any time she was close to Fanny’s crew.

  “So,” Geldof said, “what’s upsetting you now?”

  “When I came here, it gave me hope. I thought Fanny and her people could teach my parents to control it. Then I began to realize they hadn’t even tried to resist the virus. They just tried to kill me.”

  “And what do you think that means?”

  “I think it means they didn’t really love me.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh? You don’t know what it’s like to have it.”

  “Your mum managed to stop herself from attacking you.”

  “Yes, but my mum hates the mainstream and couldn’t possibly have allowed herself to go with the flow. If everybody was controlling it, I guarantee you she’d set up a movement calling for everybody to start killing each other. As willful as she is, you saw how much she had to struggle. Maybe they’ll learn to control it. You could see them again.”

  “No, I won’t. I’ve spent the last few days trying to pretend they were dead. It was easier to deal with than imagining they couldn’t even stop themselves from attacking me. The problem is, now they’re really going to be dead.”

  “You don’t know that. Maybe Lesley’s story will stop the attack.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  She could see the doubt in his eyes, but still he tried to reassure her. “There’s a chance. Look, I’m not telling you to forgive them just yet. It was a horrible thing to go through. I just want you to understand this was the virus, not them. How could they not love you?”

  This time Ruan squeezed his hand. “Thanks for trying.”

  His cheeks bloomed red and he looked away. “Come on. It’s almost lunchtime. You must be starving after giving that tree such a hard time.”

  He got to his feet and hauled her up. She reached over to grab the sword, still holding on to his hand, and together they walked out into the camp. No sooner had they emerged from the bushes than Eva came running over. “There you are. Come on, we’d better get you locked away in the hangar.”

  “Why?”

  “The BBC is here.”

  “More arrivals?”

  “We do appear to have been quite popular recently. Anyway, they want to make a video about the resistance.”

  “I’ve not been on the telly in ages,” Geldof said. “Can we be in it?”

  “They’re infected.”

  “In that case, we’d better hide.”

  They hurried to the hangar, where Lesley and the mercenaries were hovering outside. Just before they went in, Ruan caught sight of Rory. He was staring at their joined hands, his face grim. She let go hurriedly, feeling a pang at the loss of contact, and went inside.

  27

  They were in the hangar for two hours while the infected members of the commune talked with the journalists. The mercenaries passed the time with a game of charades, in which they took turns to act out not films or books but wars they’d fought in. All of the wars looked the same to Lesley and suspiciously like the games boys had played at school—mimed machine gun fire, valiant tossing of one last grenade despite multiple bullet wounds, lots of flopping to the ground dead—but somehow the mercenaries got them all correct. While the four grown men were throwing themselves around, Geldof and Ruan sat one buttock apiece on the stool in front of the computer, giving a running commentary on the spread of the story. Lesley tried not to listen: she couldn’t bear the thought of her name on everybody’s lips again.

  Now that the article was out, too late to recall, she was filled with doubts as to whether she’d done the right thing. Not to overegg the pudding, the decision she’d taken could alter the course of human history. Sure, Tony Campbell had tried hard to come across as reasonable but she couldn’t forget their interview and the sight of the sharp little teeth behind his rigid lips as he lost it and threatened to kill her. Who knew what he would do now? She couldn’t even work up the enthusiasm to talk to Geldof and the mercenaries about their mission. It was a great story, but she didn’t want to write any more great stories. She just wanted anonymity. More than anything, she just wanted to be back in New York with Terry, lost in the simple pleasure of pressing up against his warm body.

  And so, when Geldof and Ruan retired to the corner to whisper to each other, she commandeered the computer and began typing the e-mail that Fanny had forbidden her from sending earlier.

  Terry, I’m not dead and I’m sorry. Not sorry I’m not dead, obviously. I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through over the last few weeks. I’m even sorrier for the months before. I spent so much time trying to become the Lesley that everybody thought I was that I didn’t think about what you were going through. It’s important you know I wasn’t trying to become famous. I just wanted to deserve my success. But the reasons for being an absentee girlfriend don’t matter. I should have been there for you more. It must have been so hard on your own. Anyway, by now you’ll have seen the story. You know where I am. If I somehow get out of this mess, I want to come home and try to make things right between us. I’ve never told you I love you, because I’m not sure if I do. I’m not even sure if you love me, or if we can love each other. But, if you’re willing, I want to find out. This time, I promise I won’t kill the goldfish.

  Lesley.

  She hit send instantly so she wouldn’t have a chance to overthink and rewrite. It was still early in the morning in New York and Terry would be asleep, so there was no point in sitting there and obsessively refreshing in the hope he would get back to her quickly. She opened the metal hatch to see what was going on with the visitors and stifled a scream as she unexpectedly came nose-to-nose with Fanny’s scarred features.

  “She wants to talk to you,” Fanny said. “Apparently she has something important to tell you.”

  “Isn’t she infected?”

  “She’ll stand far away and shout. The wind’s blowing the other way anyway. Plus you’re locked in and we’ll sort her out if she tries anything.”

  Lesley nodded her assent and Fanny stepped aside. The chubby little journalist was standing in the middle of the camp, looking in her direction.

  “I’m here,” Lesley shouted. “What do you want to say?”

  “For the last few weeks every soldier in the army has been donating blood. At the same time, at Faslane, they’ve been working on converting the warheads in the nuclear missiles to carry a different load. A bloody load. In a few days’ time they’ll be ready. Then they’re going to fire them at France.”

  “Sorry, I don’t quite understand you,” Lesley said. “What kind of bloody load?”

  “I meant it literally, not pejoratively. They’re filling the new warheads with infected blood. Tony thinks it’s the only way to stop the attack. If the virus gets out on continental Europe, there won’t be any point in destroying Britain because they’ll be too busy dealing with it. Supposedly.”

  “That’s crazy. It’ll kill billions.”

  “Why do you think I’m telling you this?”

  “Won’t they be able to shoot them down?”

  “Apparently not. The missiles are too fast and they’re traveling a short distance.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense. As soon as those missiles go up, they’ll think they’re nuclear. They’ll launch everything they’ve got at the U.K.”

  “That’s what I said. This is a last-ditch measure. Tony was trying to find another way, but when he read your story I think it made him believe he doesn’t have anything to lose.”

  Lesley gripped the edge of the hatch so hard that her fingers ached. The pressure was the only thing holding her up. As a direct result of her actions, the virus was going to get out into the world. From Europe, it would spread everywhere: to New York, where Terry would soon
be feeling hope again, and to Kenya, where her mother and father were living out their last years in peace. Her jinx had been globalized and would wipe out half of humanity. All she needed now was a big cloak and a scythe.

  “Can’t you persuade him not to do it?” she said. “My story might make a difference. People will protest, won’t they?”

  “This isn’t some campaign to stop Israel and Palestine knocking lumps out of each other. People know this country is a real and direct threat to their lives.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Lesley said, more to convince herself than because she disagreed with the woman.

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe. It matters what Tony believes. He’s the man with his finger on the button.”

  “How do you know what he believes?”

  “I’m not really a BBC journalist. I’m his spin doctor.” Fanny shot her a sharp look, and she held up her hands. “Hey, I think this is as wrong as it’s possible to be.”

  “What do you want me to do with this information?”

  “Write a story. Tell the UN. Get them to bomb the submarine before it leaves Faslane. I don’t want this on my conscience.”

  “And I don’t want it on mine. You tell the bloody world about the bloody missile. I just want to be left alone.”

  “You don’t have that luxury. You’re Lesley McBrien, global expert on the infection.”

  “I’m not an expert!” Lesley shouted. “I’m a useless, jammy fuckwit who spouts her gob off on TV about things she doesn’t really understand.”

  “And that,” the spin doctor said, “is the very definition of an expert.”

  * * *

  Once the woman had gone, they all gathered around the table on the pier for an emergency meeting.

  “So, what do we do?” Fanny said.

  Lesley had by now calmed down. She knew that as much as she would like to curl up into a ball and quietly decompose, she didn’t have that luxury. Too many lives depended on what they did next. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t written that story, they wouldn’t be about to fire the missile off. We have to do what she says.”