by Alex Scarrow
‘Just bloody well drink it!’ Corkie muttered, thrusting the mug back towards her.
She stepped back from the table. ‘I can’t. Really. I can’t . . . I’ll just throw it up. Look, this is absolutely bloody ridiculous. There’s got to be a better—’
‘DO IT!’ Corkie’s voice, normally so deep, like a sack of gravel sliding across the back of a flatbed truck, was suddenly cracked and high-pitched. In a flicker of movement, he whipped his gun from its holster and had levelled it directly at Naga’s head.
She yelped in surprise.
‘DO IT!’
‘Oh, G-God!’ she stammered as she stared at the muzzle of the gun. ‘I’m telling you! I’ll be sick! I’ll throw it right back up!’ She turned to Drissell. ‘Please . . . if I throw up, it doesn’t mean I’m—’
‘Drink it, just like everyone else!’ he said quietly. ‘Or I will shoot you right now.’
Leon could see Corkie was right on the edge, teetering, the ticking of his head more pronounced now. He could see the tendons in the hand holding the gun fidgeting under the skin, his index finger twitching and flexing against the trigger.
Crap. He’s losing it.
‘Naga,’ called out Freya. ‘Just hold your nose and toss it back! Think of it as a Jägerbomb!’
Her joke seemed to do the trick, pulling the moment back from the brink.
‘Aye,’ said Corkie. ‘Like a really shitty warm Newcastle ale.’
Naga nodded, pinched her nose, lifted her head and emptied the mug into her mouth. The room seemed to freeze for a moment as everyone watched her response. Naga had her hand politely to her mouth just in case she threw it back up. But after a little mild heaving she seemed to be OK.
Corkie waved her aside. ‘All right, off you go. Now you lot,’ he said as he looked at Leon and the others.
Leon stepped forward to go first, took the mug from the man and brought it quickly to his lips. Instantly, he could understand why Naga and everyone else had recoiled from it. It stank of old pond water, an eggy, crappy, rotten odour that screamed NOT. FOR. DRINKING. EVER.
He stopped breathing through his nose, tipped the water into the back of his mouth and swallowed it down as quickly as he could.
‘Mmmm. Tasty,’ he said.
‘Go, on . . . move along, son.’
Freya was next. She took the mug from him, stared at the brown-stained liquid and pulled a face. ‘Your home brew sucks, Corkie.’
‘Just drink it!’
She did as he said and puffed her cheeks out after swallowing. ‘Think I’m gonna vom this up.’
It was just Fish and Grace left now. Leon noticed Corkie looking at his man, a not-so-subtle double-check to make sure Drissel was ready with the fuel for Fish’s turn.
He thinks Fish is infected.
Or . . . Grace?
‘I’m not infected . . . I’m telling you,’ said Fish. ‘I’ve never been out of the castle grounds. I’ve never been out on one of your foraging trips. I’m—’
‘Shut up.’ Corkie pushed the mug at him.
Fish took it and stared at Drissell, holding the can in both hands, drawn back and ready to swing it.
‘OK, OK . . . just don’t, you know . . . be too f-frikkin eager to throw that stuff on me?’
The hall had gone completely silent and Leon realized Fish’s earlier protestations had condemned him in the eyes of everyone.
They’re expecting a positive.
‘Fish . . . just drink it!’ called Freya. ‘You’re gonna be fine!’
Fish nodded, closed his eyes and gulped the water drown. The main hall was perfectly still. The wind gusted and moaned softly far above them. They waited as Fish kept perfectly still, statue still, eyes clenched shut. One of the castle dogs whimpered unhappily beside the dark, unlit fireplace.
Finally, he opened his eyes . . . and managed a relieved smile. ‘Actually, I think I’m OK.’
A collective sigh rippled around the room, the release of breath held in by everyone for far too long.
‘Move over to the others,’ said Corkie. He dipped the mug into the nearly empty bucket and presented it to Grace. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
She took it from him in both hands, drew it up to her lips without any hesitation, lifted her head and tipped it into her mouth.
She grimaced at the taste. ‘You thought I was infected, didn’t you?’ Her small voice seemed to fill the main hall.
Corkie stared down at her. ‘Well, we found you in a place crawling with those bastards, and I don’t know anything about you.’ He shrugged.
She handed the mug back to him. ‘So, now it’s your turn.’
He took it from her dipped it down into the bucket and brought the mug up to his mouth. He turned towards the crowd gathered to his right so they could all clearly see him taking his turn, then tipped it back, glugged a few mouthfuls and slammed the mug back down on the table.
‘Urgh . . . that’s rank!’ He rolled his eyes and gasped.
Somebody snorted out a laugh – the sound of pent-up tension finally released – and it spread. The atmosphere in the hall changed in a heartbeat, and the room came back to life once more, echoing with the sounds of conversation and relieved laughter.
Drissell stood down, screwing the cap back on to the jerry can and setting it on the floor.
Corkie placed the gun back in his holster and closed the flap. ‘Right, everyone shut up! We’ve got to discuss what we’re going to do nex—’
He stopped mid-sentence, his hand clenched in front of his mouth.
CHAPTER 36
Corkie grabbed at his stomach with one hand and steadied himself against the top table with the other. He belched loudly.
‘Oh blimey, that’s coming right back up,’ he muttered.
He swallowed repeatedly, fighting with himself not to retch, but after a few seconds of stoic resistance he finally doubled over and vomited on to the stone floor at his feet.
‘Oh, see?’ crowed Naga. ‘After all that bullying and threatening, it’s you who ends up throwing up like a girl!’
The hall filled with a mixture of laughter and exclamations of relief that it hadn’t been them.
Corkie slumped down on the bench. He stared at the puddle between his boots. It was the same tea-brown liquid he’d just swallowed, mixed with the remnants of last night’s broth.
‘Bloody hell,’ he grunted. He looked up at everyone with a grin and a hint of shame and contrition on his ruddy face. ‘Well now, that caught me by—’
He convulsed again, a jarring muscle spasm that rolled up from his belly like a racing tidal wave. He quickly leaned forward on his elbows to make sure that whatever was coming out cleared his legs and boots.
A dark jet of vomit spurted out of his mouth in an arc that spattered the floor in front of his boots. Not just a thin brew of bile and moat water this time; it had bloody substance. The hall had gone deathly quiet again. The atmosphere of impish mirth had evaporated instantly and given way to a growing concern.
‘Sarge?’ Drissell stepped forward. ‘You all right, mate?’
Corkie wiped his chin as he stared at the thick puddle before him. ‘I don’t remember eating that.’ He laughed. ‘And where’s the bloody carrots, eh? There’s always—’
He convulsed again and another thick rope of vomit erupted from his mouth. The new addition was stained a deep crimson, almost black, and unlike the rest it didn’t spread into a pool, but remained as a solid chunk in the middle.
‘That doesn’t look good,’ said Drissell.
Corkie groaned in pain. ‘Shit!’
Leon felt Grace squeeze his hand. He looked down at her and she shook her head. Her expression matching what he was thinking.
He’s infected. He’s one of them too.
His groan became a sudden shrill bellow of agony as he threw up yet again, this time a freight train of bloody chunks.
‘Oh, shit!’ yelled Fish. ‘Those are his frikkin organs!’
‘OhmyGod!’
screamed Danielle.
‘It’s him,’ shouted Naga. ‘He’s infected!’
The silence in the hall was gone and everyone reacted, drawing back from him. Royce, closest to Corkie, looked at a loss as to what to do – comfort his sarge with a supportive pat on the back or run for his life?
‘Burn it!’ screamed someone. ‘BURN IT!’
Leon looked around. It? The poor bastard had gone from a him to an it in a heartbeat.
Drissell’s indecision ended. He gave his sergeant a wide berth, picked up the can of fuel and began unscrewing the cap. Corkie meanwhile had collapsed off the bench and rolled forward into the mess of his insides. He was crouched there on his hands and knees, bellowing in agony.
Drissell came round the table and stopped short, hesitating. Not quite so keen now to fulfil his role as diesel-thrower.
‘DO IT!’ shouted Naga.
‘Oh, God, don’t look!’ gasped Freya. She turned towards Leon and Grace and threw her arms round them, pulling them into a tight huddle with Grace in the middle.
Drissell swung the can and sloshed fuel over Corkie’s back.
The sergeant reacted instantly, sitting bolt upright. ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘Not like this!’
Drissell swun the can again.
‘No! No. No. No!’ Corkie’s hand flailed at his holster.
Drissell dropped the can at his feet and fumbled frantically to pull out a lighter. ‘Sorry, Sarge, sorry, sorry!’ he cried.
He had the lighter out now and was holding it to a twist of paper, clicking to get a spark. Just as he got a small blue flame, a shot rang out and Drissell’s legs buckled beneath him. He collapsed like a puppet cut from its strings, knocking the jerry can over . . .
. . . The twist of smouldering paper fluttered down to the ground, seemingly in slow motion.
It touched down, turning damp-dark as it slowly soaked up the diesel, finally turning damp at the end where the lighter had caught.
The diesel ignited with a soft thump.
The hall, which seconds ago had been a dim, gloomy, haunted-house grey, was now alive, bright with the orange of flickering flames.
Leon watched over Freya’s shaking shoulder as Corkie’s silhouette thrashed around in the middle of the flames, the hall filled with the harrowing sound of his screaming. He untangled himself from their three-way huddle, left Freya and Grace behind him and hurried forward.
His eyes had caught the reflective glint of Corkie’s gun, flung to one side. He ran over, scooped it up, and without a thought one way or the other, right or wrong, he aimed and fired.
And fired, and fired.
Until the gun clicked uselessly in his hands.
The figure finally, mercifully, collapsed amid the flames, which were now towering high enough to lick at the floorboards of the gallery above.
He found himself staring just like everyone else, transfixed with horror at the pyre. He was sure Corkie was dead, but there still seemed to be movement among the flickering flames. Silhouetted forms, shuddering, quivering instinctively trying to escape the searing heat. He thought he saw something the size of a fist pulling itself desperately towards the edge of the fire, one finger elongated, hastily grown into a spindly leg, struggling to pull itself out of the flames.
There was another percussive thump as the remaining fuel inside the jerry can erupted and a thick oily mushroom cloud billowed upwards and bathed the wooden planks above.
It’s all going to go up.
‘Everyone out!’ shouted Naga. ‘Out! Out! NOW!’
The slack-jawed inertia that had rooted everyone in the hall to the spot and rendered them passive, foolish observers, was suddenly dispelled and panic stirred them all into action.
There was a surge of movement towards the doors that led outside. The hall was beginning to thicken with black smoke. It had started pooling beneath the ceiling but was now descending down towards them like a blanket of fog.
Leon looked around for Freya and Grace. He saw several people stupidly hurrying up the stairs to the gallery floor, presumably to grab important keepsakes, and hoped they’d have more sense.
He felt a hand tug at his arm.
‘I’m here!’ said Freya. He turned to see her looking frantically around. ‘Grace . . . She was with me a second ago. She was just . . .’
Leon saw his sister, making her way towards them from the corner of the hall, stopping and starting as she dodged around others running across her path. He watched her pause to look at the flickering flames.
‘GRACE!’ he shouted above the roar and crackle of burning.
She seemed hypnotized by the sight.
Or in shock.
The first of the floorboards above cracked with a loud snap and clattered down on to one of the long tables, sending up a bonfire shower of sparks.
‘GRACE!’ He started towards her, but then someone grabbed her roughly by the arm. It was Danielle. She had an armful of things she’d managed to grab from the dormitory. She jerked Grace forward by the arm as she barged her way through people zigzagging across the hall.
‘Yours!’ she gasped as she pushed Grace towards Leon, then headed with the flow towards the main doors leading outside.
Another floorboard cracked and fell.
‘Shit . . . Let’s go, go, go!’ gasped Freya.
They joined the back of the chokepoint of people pressing through the main doors. Leon had always wondered how pile-ups like this happened with fires. Now he understood. These doors opened inwards and the press of bodies against them had hampered the opening of them.
One was now finally, fully open, but panic was tangling everyone up in the tight space, a squirming many-legged, many-armed beast struggling to squeeze its ungainly shape through the narrow gap.
The air behind them was thick, choking and lethal. Ahead, through the one open door, fresh air gusted in as if they were standing in a wind tunnel, pulled in hungrily by oxygen-starved flames.
‘Come on!’ Leon screamed hoarsely, along with everyone else.
They pushed and squirmed through the gap and finally found themselves emerging outside. They staggered away from the door towards the trucks, collapsing on to the ground in a choking, coughing sprawl.
Leon thought they were the last ones out. But a minute later he caught sight of a figure through the open door It was staggering around in the main hall, doubling over and zigzagging to avoid the sporadic crashing of falling floorboards.
He lost sight of it, then, a moment later, Fish appeared in the doorway and lurched out leaving a trail of smoke behind him.
He looked around, patting out embers that had settled on his hair and shirt, before hurrying over to join them. He had a tartan backpack slung over one shoulder. He collapsed on the ground beside Leon, coughing up sooty phlegm and gasping for air.
Leon wanted to ask him if there was anyone else stuck in there. But the question was rendered pointless as an enormous crash from within pushed a plume of flames and a cloud of sparks out through the open door.
Not any more.
The gallery floor had collapsed.
‘You . . . idiot . . .’ wheezed Leon. ‘What was so important you . . . nearly . . . got . . . ?’
Fish pulled out a Nintendo DS from his tartan bag and waved it at him, unable to say anything as he hacked up sooty phlegm on to the ground.
CHAPTER 37
‘Grace, I just want you to know how proud of you I am.’
She looked up at Dad. He’d been waiting for her outside Davison Middle School’s gym hall along with the other parents, all huddled together for warmth against the cold, gusting November wind.
The other kids who’d performed this evening were flooding out to be greeted by their own very proud parents, who’d seemed intent on catching every possible moment with their smartphones.
‘You were fantastic.’ Dad squeezed her shoulders. ‘I can tell you put a lot of thought into that.’
She had. A lot. She’d been working on that dance routi
ne with her friends for months. The backing track had changed several times, and Grace had had to take charge of their small troupe after Natasha Baumstein had stormed off due to ‘artistic differences’.
Mom hadn’t been able to make the Thanksgiving concert. She’d had to fly back to England to help Grandad deal with Grandma’s cancer scare. And Leon, as always, had other plans. So it had been just the two of them this evening, Dad filming her on his iPhone and grinning at her proudly from the front row as she and the girls did their energetic dance routine to Jessie J’s latest track.
That was the last time she could genuinely say she loved him. The big revelation, the BIG ROW and the bust up between Mom and Dad was just a few weeks away.
So this particular memory of him was tender and precious.
‘You’re such a clever girl.’
It was the last time she remembered desperately wanting him to be proud of her.
‘Thank you, Dad.’
‘You showed them. You managed to show them all.’
Grace was aware that her memory was being used by them.
‘It was so hard.’ She shook her head. ‘It actually hurt. Hurt so much, it felt like I was burning up on the inside.’
‘But you were strong . . . and very brave not to show it.’
‘I knew it was coming. So I had time to prepare.’
The salt test. Leon’s suggestion. When he’d blurted the idea out, she’d known there wasn’t going to be any escaping it. And she had to pass the test, or . . .
She just had to pass it.
She didn’t know how to do it . . . just that she needed some kind of protection, and quickly. Equally, she didn’t know how to instruct her heart to beat or her lungs to work, or blood to flow . . . These things just happened. She had to trust that the community of colleagues inside her would know what to do to save them all.
As she’d queued, standing between Leon and Freya, she’d felt things happening inside her. She could sense the builder cells urgently converging in her throat, her trachea. She’d fought an urge to hyperventilate as the lining of her throat thickened, the airwaves contracting and beginning to affect her breathing. She’d fought the urge to gag as she’d felt something alien rapidly swelling inside her gut.
