by Brady, Eoin
The child wore a baggy jumper that belonged to her father. The bags beneath her eyes looked out of place on one so young. She bore the vacant, hollowed out stare that so many wore on the mainland.
The man placed the kettle on the hob. It sparked a few times before the gas ignited. The rest of the cooker was full: a pot of beans, a frying pan of sizzling and crackling rashers. Fin could even see herb mixed sausages, so thick that they burst through their skin.
“You have a beautiful home…” Fin left a silence for the man to offer his name, but all he got in return was gratitude. “Property value out here is definitely on the rise, might even match Dublin by the time this is over.”
“Oh, how so?”
Rebecca's shadow darkened the doorway. Fin looked to her for help. “I was only joking,” he said.
“I know, I’m messing with you. We’d need a few more months of this and a mine of gold on the island for them to be a match for Dublin prices. Market value, there’s something that will be a while in coming back. Right, who’s for tea or coffee?”
“I’d love a cup of coffee, if you’re making one for yourself,” Fin said.
“Sit down,” he said to Rebecca. “Don’t let the heat out.”
She wavered, clearly apprehensive about entering.
“You don’t have to put food on for us,” she said.
“Don’t worry, we won’t starve by filling two extra plates. I work online and you can imagine a weekly shop out here is a pain, especially if the weather turns. We do a monthly shop. We’ve enough to see us through this mess.” He put a few more sausages into an already crowded pan and started slicing mushrooms.
The smell of sizzling, frying food made Fin aware of his ravenous appetite.
“I’d be pleased if you kept the information of our stores to yourselves. We’re not setting up a diner out here.”
“We will, of course,” Fin said.
“I’m Dara, that socialite is Brian.”
Rebecca and Fin introduced themselves. Fin would have sworn the child was a girl.
“Brian, will you listen to your music?” Dara asked.
The child put headphones on and continued to stare at his phone. Fin sat close enough beside him to notice that the screen was dark. Clever. He would eavesdrop on the conversation while keeping up the illusion of being oblivious, it almost seemed a tender act, so his father could pretend his innocence was intact.
When Dara disappeared into the pantry, Brian looked up so suddenly, it caused Rebecca to jump. “Don’t eat the food.”
Dara came back before Fin could say anything and set steaming mugs on the table. The child had gone rigid in a poor attempt at looking normal.
“Sit,” the man said to Rebecca, forcing her to come closer to the table or make her discomfort move beyond obvious and into obstructive.
“Eh, coffee is okay, you don’t have to go to the trouble of putting on food for us,” Fin said. “We don’t want to leave you stuck down the road.”
“Nonsense, I feel I was rude earlier. It’s sad that that’s necessary now.”
Fin looked to Brian to see if he had assured him that they were not going to take all their supplies, but he continued to stare at his screen.
“Sugar’s on the table, if you use it. I’ll hang those life vests up for you.”
Fin gave his over willingly, but Rebecca kept hers on. “We passed an island with infected on it, I was wondering about the ship on the shore. Do you think it still works? We could use that to get to Clare Island and then my home,” Rebecca said. She moved her seat back against the wall, away from the table, before sitting down.
“I told you, none of the neighbours are going to part with their boats without a fight,” Dara said. “There are over a dozen infected that I’ve counted and there are bound to be more in the fields.”
Fin took his mug in both hands and held it beneath his nose. It was instant coffee, but the smell made him close his eyes and let it fill his lungs. He thawed a little with every breath.
Cartoons played on the television in the sitting room. The sofa was covered with blankets and empty sweet wrappers. It was a comfortable scene.
“Are you okay?” Dara asked while putting four plates on the table.
Fin wiped his eyes. “Sorry. It just seems so normal, you know.”
“That bad back there?”
Fin nodded.
“From the little I know, it’s just Ireland that has been hit. You don’t think the rest of the world will watch on and do nothing, do you?” Dara filled their plates with slightly burned, bulging herb sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, potato farls and eggs, with a dam of baked beans. “Dig in, guys.”
Dara questioned them extensively on the army in Westport House. He wanted to know if they were talking about a cure yet. He was particularly interested in asking them about their own redoubt and what, if anything, the army knew about the islands.
“Do they even know what it is yet?” Rebecca asked. “They’ve hardly mentioned anything specific about that on the news. A cure is a long while away, I think.”
Fin watched as she cut up her food and moved it around her plate, but did not eat. Seeing this place must have brought back memories of her family. If mine were this close, I’d want to be with them too.
Dara’s plate was devoid of meat, he ate measured forkfuls. Fin noticed from the corner of his eye the look of disgust on his face, watching him while he ate. Brian's plate was untouched, grease droplets cooled, coagulated and turned milky white. Fin ate slower, using a napkin to wipe his mouth. “Sorry. I haven’t had a meal this good in a long time.”
“No harm, I’m happy to have somebody that appreciates my cooking.” The look was gone.
Brian did not take the hint, continuing instead to stare blankly at the phone.
“When you get back, will you let the army know we’re here?”
“If you want us to, we can,” Fin said.
“Good people can do desperate things.”
“Sorry?” Rebecca asked.
“I’m not sure I want them knowing. If you could keep quiet about us, I’d appreciate that.”
“We won’t say a word then,” Fin said.
“Good, that’s a relief.”
The child started shaking. Fin corralled the last few beans and crumbs of white pudding onto his fork. The moment it was in his mouth Dara stood up with such speed that his chair fell back and clattered against the floor.
Caught off guard, Fin tried to kick away from the table, but his feet slipped on the slick tiles. He choked on his food, the breath driven from him by the force of Dara’s fist. A blade hilt stuck out from his stomach. The child ducked beneath the table and ran. Books flew from a shelf as Rebecca reacted, her chair hitting the shelf with a bang. Fin felt a hot stream spill down his front. Blood. “What are you doing?”
Dara pulled the blade out, but never got the chance to answer. Rebecca dented the side of his skull with her hammer. She recoiled as human, hammer, and knife fell to the floor.
“Come on!” She pulled Fin up from the chair.
They skirted around the wailing man, his shrieks incoherent gibberish. They ran from the house. Fin stumbled and fell, throwing up his breakfast on the rocky shore. Steam rose from the vomit.
“No, no, no,” he repeated it like a prayer, as if saying it could take back what just happened. Trembling hands fumbled at the zippers of his wetsuit, and with the initial shock passing, he was starting to feel pain. Rebecca yanked his jumper off and unzipped the wetsuit. His hot water bottle fell onto the sand, ruptured. Warm water spilled out from the gash caused by the knife.
There was blood on his belly, a steady stream of it pumped out of the puncture wound. It was not nearly as bad as he thought. Relief stemmed the flow of adrenaline that acted like cotton in his ears. Now he heard the screaming. Dara was alive and in agony.
Rebecca shrank in on herself. She flinched after every breath Dara took between screams. She turned to run for the paddle boards b
ut stopped to face the house. It looked as if all strength had gone from her legs. Neither the screams nor Fin’s voice reached her any longer. He never knew a human could make such noises. Pity was the only thing that made him return to the house.
Rebecca had acted instinctively. Dara lunged with such ferociousness that his chair was halfway across the kitchen. Muscles in his neck strained and spittle flecked his lips. Writhing on the floor, his kicking feet left black scuff marks.
Fin lunged for the hammer and jumped back out of his reach. Wringing the handle between his hands, Fin stepped closer. Dara did not seem to notice him. Fin dragged the cloth off the table; plates, cutlery and mugs crashed down on top of the prone man. Fin covered Dara in the coffee stained shroud.
“I’m sorry.”
Fin brought the hammer up, but faltered. In his convulsions, Dara’s hand hit the knife and sent it skittering away. Fin took a breath and brought the hammer down. He used all his strength for the next blow, terrified that Dara would feel any of it. The screaming stopped by the third impact. By the fourth the spasms ceased.
The hammer slipped from Fin’s hand. Where Dara’s face had been beneath the cloth was now misshapen and blood darkened. What was the hammer used for last? Hanging Christmas decorations? Fin could still hear the sickening thud the hammer made against a human head.
The air outside was fresh. Only by the contrast did he realise that Dara had soiled himself. Rebecca lay cross legged, looking out to the mainland. Her hands buried in the sand, making fists.
Fin walked past her and followed the backwash of a retreating wave. Barely noticing the cold, he waded out far enough that he could feel the suggestion of a current pulling at him. Water filled his open suit, making it a considerable weight, he let it take him down. Closing his eyes he screamed into the ocean. All he heard were cascading bubbles and the endless wash of the waves eroding the shore.
28
Hope Dies with Thoughts and Prayers
Fin crawled up the beach, coughing out harsh saltwater. Rolling over, he lay on his back. The waves lifted him a little, but not enough to drag him out. Just below the wash and gurgle of the ocean was the hollow ring of the hammer. He filled his lungs with air so crisp it felt like splintered shards of broken ice. Gulls and crows kept a watchful eye on him.
Rebecca came down to sit beside him. His eyes stung from the salt, hers were distant. “Let’s go,” she said in a voice so low it was barely a whisper.
Fin sat up, but could go no further. His head pounded, it felt like he was just coming out of a full body flu ache. I killed a man. The concept was so foreign that the thought barely registered. Rebecca did not give him time to think, she left him to drag their boards to the water’s edge. He tried to stand up, but that increased the flow of blood seeping from the wound. He held his hand over it and lay down, knowing he could not trust his legs. Shivering, he said, “You saved my life.”
Rebecca stood over him, blocking the sun. “Let’s go.”
Fin felt the familiar spasms in his stomach. He was about to retch, but fought it. “Wait.”
She just looked out over the water.
“We have to send the drone up. We’ll only have to come back if we don’t.”
“I’m never coming back. Is he… dead?”
Fin gave a single firm nod, it was all that was needed.
“I killed him,” Rebecca said.
Fin clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face contorted from concentrating on ignoring the sound of the hammer. “You saved my life.” The hammer strokes punctuated his words. Head in hands, he started laughing, it was the first time he truly feared for his mental health. “I think I’m losing my mind. It’s like my sanity is an anchor on an old rusty chain and it’s about to break.”
“Oh my god, Fin! The child! Where’s the child?”
Rebecca ran to the house. Fin got up and stumbled into a jog. He could not remember what happened to Brian during the struggle. They called his name from outside the house. Neither of them wanted to go in.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Rebecca said.
“I don’t think there’s a convincing way of saying that.” Fin said. He did not think it entirely true either. The child knew what was going to happen. Why was he shaking moments before Dara attacked? Together they combed the shoreline calling his name. Rounding the headland, they came across a pier. Brian was sitting low in the only boat. He was already too far out for more than their voices to reach him. His head snapped back when he heard them. Immediately, he pulled in the oars and started the engine.
“We have to go after him,” Rebecca said.
“By the time we get the boards, he’ll be out of sight. Stop and think. After what we did to his father, if we chase him, it would only force him into dangerous situations to avoid us. He heard us talk about the military camp. He’ll go there, hopefully.”
“He was petrified of us the moment we walked through that door,” Rebecca said. “How did you not notice how odd Dara was acting? You just ate as if things were back to normal. People aren’t normal now, Fin.”
“What do you mean?” He was starting to feel the cold.
“How could you not tell he was acting strange from the moment he spotted us? You just went in as if the world wasn’t ending. We should have just paddled away.”
“He wasn’t infected. Why would he do that? He had no reason for attacking us. We were no harm to anybody.” He remembered the malice on Dara’s face when he stabbed him. Fin pushed his thumbs against his eyes to shut the image out. He took shaky breaths to calm himself.
“The infection does not wipe out all the other bad in the world. It changes people. Survival is cruel.” Rebecca knew Fin could not keep pace with her, but she did not slow down to accommodate him.
Fin walked in the husks of her footprints. The mountain seemed to be the only constant in this world of change. People turned into ravenous weepers. Survivors attacking survivors. The old world, bleak and empty. When we are all dust, this won’t even be a bad memory in the life of the mountain. Rebecca paced the shore, running her hands across her bristly scalp. A radio in a pack on the back of one of their boards crackled into life, startling them to action. Any diversion, keep busy, don’t give the mind time to think.
“If you leave that on when the infected are near, it’ll get us killed,” Fin said.
She threw the radio at him in frustration. “It’s coming from your bag you idiot! It’s a race between your stupidity and carelessness, over which will be the cause of our deaths.”
“Well, guys, how was the paddle?” George asked in a tone that was alien in the moment.
Fin picked up the radio and wiped the sand off the plastic bag covering it. Once he pressed the receiver down, he realised that he did not have a clue what to say. He let it go.
“Just checking in,” George said.
“It’s not a good time.” Dead air passed between them.
“Is everything okay?”
“Not really. There were people on the island. It’s just us now.”
“There were?”
Fin realised that, to satisfy George’s questions, he would have to admit to murdering somebody. “We’re all right now. Stay safe, we’ll chat later.”
“Okay. Listen to me now. There’s a lot of movement here. I haven’t been able to leave my position. If the island is safe now, then stay there.”
“Thanks for the heads up, let us know if and when anything changes.”
“Rebecca?” George asked.
“I’m here. Stay safe. We’ll be thinking of you.”
“That’ll keep you warm,” George said.
They were silent on the beach. “I’m with a pack of idiots.” Her dim smile blunted her words a little.
Fin turned the radio off and stored it in his pack. Now they had a body to deal with. He went in first. Dara lay where he died. Blood soaked and spread across the sheet covering his head. Fin picked up the hammer and Rebecca took one of the knives that Dara had
used to prepare breakfast out of the sink. Before they searched the house, Fin covered the hammer with washing up liquid and held it under the hot tap. When steam started coming out of the sink, he emptied the rest of the washing liquid into his cupped hand and used the metal pot scrub to cleanse the blood from his skin, gasping as the scalding stream burned him, a blinding and brief absolution through pain.
Rebecca kicked the knife that nearly killed him under the sofa, it was small enough that Dara was able to conceal it up his sleeve. “Those screams should have been my own. If not for the hot water bottle and your quick reaction. This time now was not supposed to be mine.” He relished his next breath. “It’s mad how quick life can leave a body. He’s just meat now.” He let his tongue loose, so he could keep a grip on his mind.
They searched every possible hiding place in the house. There were three bedrooms; the master, a guest room, and one decorated for a girl. ‘Esme’ was etched on a wooden plaque above a memory board of photos. Dara was in none of them.
“That’s Brian,” Rebecca said. “Dara must have cut her hair. Why call her Brian though?”
“I haven’t seen a single photo with Dara in it throughout the house,” Fin said. “I don’t think it was us she was terrified of.”
“Where are her parents?”
Their search of the house unearthed no answers. All that was left to do was to dispose of the body. They laid out a few bed sheets and rolled him on top of them. Fin unplugged the Christmas tree lights and wound the cord tightly around the body; he had seen too many corpses cause trouble in the last few days. The body was an incredible weight to lift, when no muscle worked with you.
“We need to bury him,” Rebecca said.
Fin let go of a leg, it hit the floor without bouncing. “The dead are walking and you want to bury a body in soft soil. If I had a digger, I wouldn’t feel like I could bury it deep enough. We’ll throw it off the end of the pier. Tie it down with rocks.”