Weep (Book 1): The Irish Epidemic

by Brady, Eoin

  They raided the housekeeping storeroom for bottles of bleach and disinfectant. Both of them wore gloves and heavy aprons and covered their faces with cloth. Fin felt on the verge of tears for most of the morning. His thoughts raced uncomfortably, but the chores bled off some of his anxiety. At times he grieved for Solene and his family, only to admonish himself for losing hope. If I’m still alive then they should have no bother. In idle moments he heard the echo of her crying over the phone. No amount of labour could blunt the effect her anguish had on him. He would have cleaned the whole hotel if it meant keeping his mind active, but he was haunted by the thought that they were just wasting precious time.

  Including the little bit of food they foraged from his apartment and what was left in the kitchen, there was just enough to see them through this mess, however long it took. It will be over before we run out. There were two vending machines on the ground floor. Fin emptied them of chocolate, sweets, soda and crisps. The freezers were mostly bare, but there was breakfast cereal and tinned food that would keep them fed into the new year. The bulk of the dry food that guests had for breakfast was stored upstairs, where the infected roamed.

  The smell of bleach was unbearable. They opened the door into the private car park in the hope that fresh air would shake their headaches from fumes and hangovers. Susurrus conversation from people walking along the mainstreet carried through the tunnel to them. Roads were impassable in and around town.

  “I don’t know who is foolish,” Rebecca said. “Them for leaving their homes, or us for staying here.”

  There seemed no end to the stream of refugees. Eventually, the cold forced them back inside the hotel. When they locked the door, the muffled, ghost-like voices vanished. With nothing left to do, they spent the rest of the day in their cell, only leaving to use the bathroom and make food. Fin was afraid to lose himself in drink. The temptation to slip from the world and slowly drown in false comfort was hard to ignore. Once that first glass was poured, he would not be able to stop.

  To distract himself, he searched the camera archives to ensure there were no other surprises in the hotel. Using the guestbook, he found there were two rooms that had not checked out. One belonged to the dead man, David Brosnan; the other was occupied by a family of three. The thought of small and fast infected scuttling through dark halls made his skin crawl. It took an hour, but they found footage of the family. They had fled without checking out.

  “You weren’t messing when you said you were run off your feet,” Fin said. “You’re nearly in front of every camera.”

  “Told you.” Her words came out slurred. She had started drinking before noon.

  Fin loaded up the camera feeds from the day before the storm and let them run at normal speed. It was too easy to imagine he was watching live footage, that if he opened the door, he would see the day staff in their Christmas gear, happily whittling away the work hours until they could leave. Maybe I need a drink.

  Eventually he gave in. Rebecca kept trying to show him news videos on her phone. Every time she did, he got angrier, as did she after each refusal. It was foolish to ignore things, but knowing did not help either. They drank to reinforce the walls that were shrinking around them.

  Rebecca fell asleep while they were watching people walk by the building on the cameras. Soft snores let him know he was alone; only then did he open a new tab on the computer. Pressing the keys quietly, he logged into Facebook before fear of what he might find stopped him. The disease had even infected his feed – scrolling through it revealed nothing but images of the sick. There were more notifications and messages than he had ever received for any birthday. An Irish flag overlay covered most of the profile pictures in a display of solidarity. I feel better already.

  People he had not spoken to for years reached out to him like old friends. I suppose we are. Time has just made us strangers. Nothing from Solene. Neither of his parents had an account on any platform. A digital display cooker was a technological step too far for them. A message from his sister Orla was dated a day ago.

  ‘Dad said to let you know he’s fine, did not catch anything while out. We’re all okay. Doing as well as can be expected. Scared and thinking of you. When you can, let us know that you’re safe. We can’t reach your phone, but putting that down to the networks being jammed. We have not heard from Solene yet. Dad thinks she’s still in Ireland, no way she made that flight out with the storm. Reporters are following up on the last planes to leave the country. If she was on one, they’ll have her quarantined in France.

  ‘It took me half an hour to finish this message. The last plane to leave Ireland, that’s a horrifying thought, you know it will be made into a documentary or a tacky film when all this ends. I don’t know why I’m worried about you, you spent most of your life playing video games with zombies in them. Aren’t I the fool for thinking you were wasting your time?

  ‘We turned the estate into a little fortress. Wait until you see it. They’ve built walkways across rooftops, it’s ridiculous. This will be over soon and then you can see it for yourself. Mam is being her usual nosy self, she’s having great fun breaking into houses to loot them and judge their decor.’

  His sister rarely messaged him. They hardly spoke when they lived in the same house. There was no animosity between them, they were just a part of the furniture to each other. He nearly woke Rebecca to share the good news, but he felt that was unfair. He would not listen to her horror stories, so he had no right to share anything, not when the fate of her own family was still unknown. Instead he stifled his joy and used it to push the whiskey bottle away.

  It took several hours to type a long response detailing everything that had happened since the outbreak. Reading over it felt surreal, like something that had happened to another. He wrote ‘zombie’ out several times, but had to delete it in favour of ‘infected’.

  Rebecca stirred. With enough drink in her system, she no longer needed him by her side to leave the office. The noise she made in the hall grated at his nerves and good cheer.

  “Crowd’s thinned,” she said when she returned. She was unsteady on her feet and sat down on her blankets. “I don’t feel good. I wonder if I have it. A weeping sickness they’re calling it on the news. Like flu. Brain swells up making them stupid, then kills them. At least you’re not you when you turn.” She tried to pick up her empty glass and knocked it over. “Cruel disease. If I heard my mother weeping, it’d break me.” Her face contorted in a grimace, but she held back tears. “Sympathy. They draw you in with it. That’s horrible. Sympathy, that’s how it spread so fast.”

  “Rebecca, stop.”

  “I should’ve left you and gone home. Have to look after myself.” She looked at him with watery eyes. “I’m taking half the food. Leave you to rot.”

  “You’re acting like I’m keeping you here. Take what you want and go, but you’ll wait until you’re sober. You can’t leave in this state.”

  “I’m sick of waiting!”

  Fin was on her in an instant. Hand covering her mouth. Rage making him enunciate every word. “Be quiet you idiot.”

  They listened, waiting to hear the weep of an infected. There was silence. Fin felt a warm dampness on the side of his hand. Tears fell from Rebecca’s blazing eyes, dissolving Fin’s anger, replacing it with shame.

  “I won’t be able to do it sober,” she said. “How can the rest of the world just watch what’s happening and do nothing?”

  Fin shrugged. “Is it just in Ireland? Are we alone?”

  “Just us. Watched a video of long lines of people outside blood banks across the world, ready to donate. Quite sweet actually. But what good is blood when your normal citizens turn into monsters?” Her laugh stopped with a scowl. “I hate feeling like we can’t do anything. I want to kill them all.”

  The sound of her teeth grinding made Fin shudder. “You’re a receptionist, I’m a nightporter. I can deal with rowdy drunks, one at a time. I’ve a bit of first aid training, do you? Does it even mat
ter?”

  “Can we watch the news, please?”

  Thinking it would keep her mind off leaving, he agreed. “I don’t want you to go,” Fin said.

  She buried her face in her hands. “As soon as this is over, I swear, I’m emigrating.”

  They laughed.

  “What’s that light for?” she asked, pointing to a large bank of bulbs, dials and switches above the duty manager’s desk.

  “Alarms.” He stood up so quickly his chair fell over. “Those are for the emergency doors. One of them was opened.”

  “Where?”

  Fin steadied himself against the desk. “Top floor.” He brought up the function room camera feed. The room was empty, the TV was off. Fin pressed his fingers against his temples. “I wasn’t thinking. The televisions are all set to standby. If left inactive long enough, they go off to conserve power.” He scanned the cameras in the halls to try and locate the creatures. The eerie green glow of the night vision mode caught no movement.

  Rebecca jammed a wooden wedge beneath the door to secure it. They had knives from the kitchen, sturdy cutlery that could tackle a steak, so long as it was not too well done. The useful tools were in the handyman's work room at the far end of the basement.

  “Where’s Ciara?” Rebecca asked.

  “Off camera. We can’t get caught in here.”

  “The door’s locked, we’re okay,” she said.

  “I can’t find them.” Fin frantically searched the hotel.

  “Where do the emergency exits lead?” Rebecca said.

  “The fire staircase opens on every floor. He could be anywhere.”

  Movement on the external camera drew his attention outside. People usually bowed their heads and covered their faces beneath hoods against the weather and to avoid eye contact with others. Now they gathered close to the car park gate. Fin changed to a different camera. He could make out David’s silhouette in the tunnel. He was reaching through the metal railings trying to get at the refugees.

  “While it’s distracted, we should put it down, make this place safe.” Her knife was rarely far from reach, the handle was slick with sweat. “You’ve seen what they do. If that thing gets us, we’ll be wandering around just like Ciara. She looked like her last sensations in life were all painful. We’d be harmful to others. How many children have walked by the hotel? If you’re worried about repercussions, we can destroy the camera recordings afterwards.”

  “Those videos could be a record of our last moments in this world. Solene, our families, they could be watching in the future.”

  “How do you want them to judge your actions?” Rebecca said. “The people getting sick now were not willing to do what they must.”

  “What if there’s a vaccine?” he asked.

  “Do you want to wait and find out?”

  Panic rippled through the refugees. Fin was amazed at how quickly they gave in to fear. How many people already have blood on their hands?

  “It’s trapped in the tunnel – we sneak up and kill it,” Rebecca said.

  Fin’s bowels churned at the thought of murder, especially in front of so many witnesses. “We can’t leave the hotel now. Not when they know the infection is here.”

  “For now. Put your mask on carefully. There are a few pairs of glasses in the lost and found box. Wear them in case of blood spatter,” Rebecca said.

  “What about Ciara’s body upstairs?”

  “We’ll deal with her afterwards.”

  They checked each other’s protective gear was tight and secure before Fin counted to three and opened the door. Fin turned the knife over in his hand, there was a good weight to it. What if I hit bone? I suppose there isn’t really an art to it.

  The people outside argued over whether to kill it or leave it be.

  “We’re idiots,” Fin said. “They’ll do it for us.”

  As he looked into the tunnel a child spotted him and shouted. “There are more zombies in there.”

  Rebecca stepped out and waved at them which caused confusion. She brandished the knife and the crowd caught on quick enough, they made more noise to keep its attention.

  Fin was not entirely sure which side the heart was on. He took up a position on the left, Rebecca the right. They crept towards the man that had once been David Brosnan. When Fin met him in the basement, he never would have expected the hotel would be where he spent his last moments.

  Without the corner to hide behind, Fin felt weak, exposed in the open. He kept in line with Rebecca, inexorably moving towards something he did not want to do. It heard their heavy breathing and started to turn. Without the sense to take its arms out from the gate first, it awkwardly fumbled. They charged into him with such force that the gates bulged outwards. The knives went into its back with little protest. Fin let go of his immediately. Silence washed over the crowd, leaving it so the only noise was the growing number of seagulls and crows.

  A soft rasp escaped its mouth. Fin’s knife nicked a rib upon entry but slid in nearly to the hilt. He was sure it had punctured a lung. What he found most sickening was how easy it was. With its arms stuck through the gate, the infected slumped, but did not fall over.

  Rebecca swayed on her feet. She had drink to blame for that, Fin did not. Freckles stood out bold on her bloodless face.

  “Is it done?” one young man asked. “Somebody go have a look.” He had his phone out, recording the incident. Fin noticed several other phones.

  “There are more of them in there, look at the bite marks on its neck.”

  “We’re not infected,” Rebecca said, the drink putting a slur on her voice that convinced those listening otherwise.

  “Where are yous heading?” Fin asked. They looked at him with an expression that was barely softer than the one the dead man got. It said ‘You’re a murderer.’ and ‘There might be trouble to come.’ Some of them offered sympathetic smiles, but would not go so far as to put words to those feelings.

  “West…” The woman stopped speaking and as one the crowd moved back, their attention on David.

  He started writhing. How long does it take to die? His feet kicked in what Fin thought was a death spasm, but the side of his shoe caught the tarmac, giving him purchase. He started rising back to his feet. The crowd dispersed, people pushed at each other to get away from the gate. Both knives were buried deep in its back. There was no way a human could survive that amount of damage.

  Orders boomed above the din by a commanding voice. A woman wearing a full respirator roughly shouldered people out of her way, not afraid to hurry them on with the stock of her rifle. Framed by the gate, she raised her weapon to David’s forehead and fired. The echo of the shot ricocheted in the tunnel. Fin and Rebecca threw their arms in the air and shouted over each other how they were not infected. David’s head clanged against the gate. He did not move again. The creature crumpled, like a switch had been turned off, expression unchanged in death.

  The woman aimed into the tunnel and fired. There was no time to get to cover. Fin flinched at the sound, expecting to feel it. She shot Rebecca. He turned to run, working on adrenalin and dread.

  Behind him, Ciara’s body lay motionless on the wet ground, only a few feet away.

  The woman did not have to shout to be heard. When she spoke, others were silent. “You all know what you have to do.” She moved aside so they could all see David, ignoring Rebecca and Fin. “It has to be the head or back of the neck, hit them hard enough to damage the spine. Pull the motor or cut the wires.”

  Before the epidemic the only time Fin had ever seen a gun in the Republic of Ireland was inside the American Embassy in Dublin when he was looking for a student visa.

  “Are there any more in there?” the woman asked.

  “Just us,” Rebecca said. “But, we’re not infected.”

  There were hushed conversations while other soldiers dispersed the crowd. It started to rain. Menacing white-capped waves out in the bay still carried a memory of the storm. The slow procession continued.
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  The woman approached the gate, but kept her mask on. It muffled her voice. She let her rifle rest ready against her front. “What are you doing in there? Looting has…”

  “We work here,” Rebecca said.

  “I’m the nightporter and she’s reception. We’re watching the place over the holidays.”

  “The nine to five is on hold, or haven’t you seen the news?” she said.

  “We’re just here to watch over the cameras.” He made a point of mentioning those in case she was thinking of shooting them too, but it occurred to him that it would not matter what proof was on the cameras if he was dead.

  “Have you come in contact with them? Cuts, bites? Been in a room with them?”

  “No more than you have,” Rebecca said.

  “This mask is a little more hi-tech than your dishcloths. What’s the food situation like in there?”

  “Enough to get by for a few days. They cleaned out the stores before closing. The stock for New Year’s Eve was due after Christmas,” Rebecca said, telling only half-truths.

  The refugees looked on with morbid curiosity, as if they assumed the killing was not finished. It was strange to see faces that would not look out of place in the local shop. What he saw on the news did not seem real, but the terror on those faces was inescapable.

  Fin had no understanding of military insignia, but by the authority she commanded, he assumed she was a captain. His knowledge of ranks included ‘captain’ and ‘not a captain’.

  “How long have you been in here?”

  “Since it started. We found him in the basement,” Fin said. “On our last night of service. It was before Peggy hit. He was lucid and speaking. Well, mumbling. It’s not uncommon for people after a night on the town to forget their room number and sometimes basic motor skills.” Fin kept his mask up, but he wondered if them not being able to see his face would make it easier to kill him. “I had gloves on when helping him.”

  “What about her?” The captain nodded to Ciara.