by Brady, Eoin
“It’s a bit chilly.” He spat out a mouthful of brine. “Come on, you’ve seen old people swimming in the Atlantic during winter, nearly in the nip too, and you’ve a wetsuit, hot water bottle and a paddle board. Stop your complaining. Come on. Die somewhere else, around family. Someplace warm.” Feeling more composed, he started threading water. Salt stung his eyes.
The board was nearly out of sight. He glimpsed a flash of colour in the brief valley of a wave and swam towards it. When he grabbed hold of it, he let out a shuddering laugh. Dad used to say that on his deathbed, he’d say a prayer as insurance, just in case there was anything to the whole religion lark. “I nearly did, Dad.” Fin pulled his body onto the board and lay flat. His bare hands were grey, it felt like drying cement circulated through his veins. “You’re not clear yet. Come on.”
Panic became anxiety. Kneeling, he spotted the paddle and maneuvered the board towards it.
Caught out in the open with an unforgiving wind blowing across the bay, he knew how far he still was from the mainland. The island was barely closer, but the mountain lured him. Caught in its orbit, he had but one choice. The next hour was to be a bitter struggle, racked with cold and the fear of drowning. His progress was slow, taxing his aching body.
Hypothermia was another thing he knew existed, but had little knowledge of. There was always a specialist; if he got it, it would end up being somebody else's problem. Hot water bottle saving my life again. He feared the unknown and this whole experience showed him just how clueless he really was. In the distance, a great seam in the clouds ripped open. Black clouds solidified and fell as hail. The tear grew towards him. Freezing, he could still appreciate the wild beauty of it, watching as Clare Island disappeared in the misty veil.
Heavy pits of ice peppered his skin and unsettled the water around him. It can’t kill you. Once he reached shallower waters, the land kept the wind from him. It had harassed him like a niggling doubt for most of the journey. Not even the sun brought warmth back to the world. “Good man yourself.” He let the monotony of paddling occupy his body. His mind wandered and he found himself having a conversation with one of his best friends as if he were there with him. “I hope that was a figment of my imagination and not you haunting me,” he said in the safety of the shallows.
Red buoys marked the location of oyster beds near the shore. “You know, I’ve never tried one of those. I don’t understand how those slimy, gooey things are supposed to be an aphrodisiac.” On that note, the phantom of his friend departed. Neal had left for America to pursue a career in the NYPD. I’ll look for your family when I’m home, I promise you. He glided across stones that scratched the underside of the board. Fin collapsed, unsettling a few sheltering seabirds. There were no footprints near him. The only sounds were those made naturally by the world.
After he caught his breath, he dragged the board above the tideline, confident that he would never step on one again for as long as he lived. As good as naked and exposed on a beach in winter, he had to keep moving, or risk remaining still forever more. The knife wound throbbed and his hot water bottle was tepid.
There was not a soul in sight as he walked along the fringe of the beach. Stairs led onto an exposed path to an empty car park, but he stayed in the overgrown swordgrass. There was a lifeguard prefab painted yellow and red. The door and window were covered with metal sheeting for the winter. There was no getting in. He told himself that he would find nothing of use inside anyway.
Sheep stood out in the nearby fields, the unfortunate white of their fleeces making them targets. In one field, Fin could see a ram walking backwards and then charge at an infected man. The zombie went down and immediately tried to rise. The ram started backing up again.
The most daunting aspect of the sparse buildings that he passed was their empty reflective windows. Abandoned by the desperate and likely infested by the dead. He was less sure about the strength of his conviction for leaving the island now that he was here.
Hunkered low, he walked along the verge of wet fields. Ready to drop at the first sign of movement. Grey clouds massed around the barren scree slopes of the mountain. The peak was obscured, blind to the world below. Maybe that’s why they sleep up there.
It was easy to avoid the few houses between him and the base of the mountain by going through dry-stone walled fields. Twice he approached buildings, hoping to find warm clothes, only to run away at worrying noises. Eventually, he chanced upon a utility shed with no alarm and no lock. The cold room harboured spiders and the overpowering perfume of washing detergent. The clothes he found were ill fitting and old fashioned, but they were dry. He peeled off the wetsuit, used a pair of socks to dry himself, then donned three jumpers and a pair of slacks.
What am I doing? The day was much colder than the previous ones. He imagined that, without central heating, George would be cocooned in blankets, waiting for dawn to end the blistering cold. I can’t go back to our house. George said there was too much activity and I’ll not head out on water again anytime soon.
He waited in the shed for the rain to pass. He was almost certain he saw something move in the house. It could have been a reflection from something outside, but he was not willing to gamble. Without pen or paper, he could not leave a note apologising to the people he was stealing from.
At a guess, he estimated that no more than two roads stood between him and his goal. When the rain became a drizzle and idleness chilled him to the core, he left the shed. Fin used trees and low hedges for cover. He had not felt such trepidation about crossing a road since he was a toddler. Movement on the bend left of his position made him melt into the long branches. Luckily his stolen clothes were neutral colours and did not stand out.
Whatever it was, living or dead, it was heading away from him, towards town. Fin bounded across the road and stopped to survey the next field. The living had to be quiet as the dead to avoid the attention of the damned. At a distance, it was nearly impossible to tell a weeper apart from an uninfected human. He worried somebody might take him for a zombie and sneak up on him. At least the weepers had the decency to give you a terrifying warning before hunting you.
Partway across the field, he heard a car tearing down the road, coming from Westport. It rushed past his position and moments later breathless weeping caught up with it.
Fin waited until he was stiff from the cold before coming out of the thicket. A few more fields and he made it to the pub at the base of the mountain. It was too tempting a prize for it to be empty. Windchimes sang in the light breeze, but there were no infected near. Maybe they followed the climber.
Not wanting to be trapped in the open, he took a long route around the pub, walking through a garden and an abandoned field full of briars. Once the land started rising, he felt safer. By now, he had certainly missed the climber. He was tempted to make the hike up the mountain himself, but after Dara, he was not willing to test his luck again by scaring them, or worse, provoke an attack.
A white statue of Saint Patrick stood over the path that all pilgrims took to reach the summit. It was the only company he could abide while waiting. The light in the alarm box on the café at the base of the mountain still worked, so he could not break in and wait out of the cold. The few houses on the path up the mountain were sealed up. At this point in the outbreak, nobody was welcoming of strangers. He waited. Far above him, the SOS signal appeared massive; it would have taken numerous tins of paint and multiple trips.
After sitting idle in isolation for too long, he decided to walk up the path a little higher. He hoped the exercise would keep him warm and exorcise his dark thoughts. He found a sheltered spot near a stream and started building a dam with rocks to pass the time. Most of the light was gone from the day when he started worrying about how he would spend the night. Staying there through the cold and fear was a type of penance.
He tried turning his phone on to message Solene, but water had gotten into the components and ruined it. The radio could still be sinking to the bottom of
Clew Bay for all he knew of its depth. He had just given Rebecca and George undue cause to worry. If they go out looking for me and get hurt, that’s on me.
From his position he watched people moving on the roads: refugees seeking sanctuary, or infected – he could not decide which. The question was answered when a helicopter disturbed the silence. Fin shielded his eyes and scanned the sky. A large military carrier flew high above the bay. The sound of its engine and rotors roused every infected within hearing distance.
Fin ran further up the side of the mountain to keep it in view. It was too far away for him to make out much detail in the dimming light. The helicopter hovered above what he assumed to be the grounds of Westport House. Dark shadows fell from an open door at its rear. A parachute blossomed above the small silhouette of a man, the last thing to leave the craft. They allowed themselves to fall much slower than the other cargo. They quickly disappeared from Fin’s line of sight.
He ran back to his shelter, waving into the sky as the helicopter returned the way it had come. It paid no attention to him, but he did not stop waving until the world was quiet again.
“There’s something you don’t see everyday.”
Fin fell off his perch, landing hard onto the sharp edge of a rock. He winced in pain, while trying to scramble away from the striking outline behind him. Dara’s grimacing face was all he could see. Arms raised to protect himself, Fin cowered away. Letting out a roar. “Stop!”
The man put his hands up to disarm the situation. “I didn't mean to startle you, I prefer getting the jump on company, before it can be done to me. Are you okay?”
Fin lowered his hands slowly. He felt heat rising in his cheeks. “Sorry about that. I’m a bit on edge.”
The man helped Fin back to his feet. “That’s just a normal response to a horrible situation.”
Once Fin was standing, the man stepped back, he seemed to be constantly alert, shading his eyes, always watching his surroundings. He wore high-end climbing gear. His head was covered with a hat and most of his face was obscured by a scarf. The bit of skin visible was lobster red from the wind. “What are you doing up here so late?”
“I saw the light.”
The man nodded. “Curiosity?”
“Well, no.” Fin realised how foolish coming here to offer help was. “I came about the SOS sign painted on the side of the mountain.”
“So, you’re the rescue, are you? Had I the patience and the paint, I would have added ‘preferably by helicopter’. I can’t walk my family off the mountain. Or, have you come from Westport House?”
“You know about the camp there?”
“Of course. What do you think I do with my time off the mountain?”
Fin did not know what to say or do, he had nearly died to come and offer help to the lantern man, but he was going to be sent off like a door-to-door salesman. “You’re better off up there than down here, I suppose.”
“You try hauling stuff up each day, I wouldn’t do it if I had any other option.” He stretched his back and looked towards Westport. “I don’t envy them trying to sure that place up. The walls only go so far around the grounds. The rest is fence. Right now they’re relying on the small population of the hinterland. If they were in Dublin, there’d be nothing left of them by now. Things must be looking up if they’re brave enough to call in a helicopter drop off.”
He took a packet of cereal bars from his jacket and threw one to Fin. “Remind them that we’re here though. I don’t want to linger longer than needs be. If something happened to me…” He bit away half of his bar and the rest of what he was going to say. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“I just came up to see if you needed help, I’ll head back to Westport, I’m staying with a friend outside town.”
“I riled a few of them up down there. Car alarms and radios – windchimes in a pinch. I wasn’t expecting the fast, crying ones, but the place is overrun. They usually leave come morning, but it wouldn’t be safe for you to try so close to nightfall. Especially not after the helicopter. That little stunt has undoubtedly cost lives.”
“I was at the train station a few days ago. It was full of fresh infected.”
The man was quiet while he thought about that. “Have you any weapons on you?”
“I don’t. I fell in the bay on my way from the island. Lost my pack.”
The man looked skeptical. “You said you were staying with a friend outside town.”
“Never mentioned how far outside town. Nah, we’re in a renovated attic. Too close to town though. We thought the islands would be better. They’re not.”
“Are they paying you to knock on doors and bring as many people as you can back with you to Westport House?”
“The last job they gave me was killing pets, so this would be a step up. But no, they don’t know I’m here. I’m not part of that group.”
“If you give me a hand bringing my gear up, then you’re welcome to stay the night with us, so long as you let me search you. If you’re uncomfortable with it, then I’ll not keep you. Take your chances on the road.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
The man looked at him blankly before laughing. “No imposition at all. I think I’ve either slipped something or gotten a nerve pinched in my back, so I’d be glad for the help.”
Fin consented to a search for weapons and bite marks. He raced to come up with an excuse for the wound on his stomach, but could think of nothing but the truth. “That’s a knife wound, not a bite or gouge.”
“Why did that happen?”
Tears formed in Fin’s eyes. “I wish I knew.” He told the stranger about the situation on the island.
The man just nodded and peeled back the bandages to have a look at the wound. “It looks a bit red, but I don’t think there’s an infection. You’re probably right, I am better off up here.” He found the polaroid in the pocket of Fin’s trousers. The one he took earlier with Rebecca. The man seemed less on edge when he saw that. “My name’s Malachy.”
“I’m Fin.”
“We need to be quick, I’m not usually this low so late.” Malachy walked on. He had left his gear a good distance away to sneak up on Fin. Wearily, he hefted the pack over his shoulders. His back bent under the strain. There was another large rucksack, he handed it to Fin. He had to lean forward to stop from tumbling back with its weight.
“You do this every day?”
“Have to.” Malachy let Fin go first, but never gave out about his slow pace. He gave Fin a lantern in preparation for the night. “The houses around here are running out of food. Survivors are forced out of their homes with hunger. They either become fodder for the infection or live long enough to leave estates barren. If it were not for Christmas surplus, a lot more people would be dead right about now. I have to come down and salvage if we’re to outlast those things.”
“Why the mountain?”
Malachy handed Fin a bottle of water and refused it when it was offered back. “After the outbreak happened, nobody knew if it was airborne or how it was transferred. I’m pretty sure you could be safe for a while in the upstairs of a two-storey building, so long as you knock out the stairs. I wish I knew that back then. My wife was against going up, but I insisted and that’s why I do the runs every day, to ensure she’s cared for.”
“Does she know how bad it is?”
“No. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate if you kept the news to yourself when she’s in earshot.”
“What about moving out to one of the islands then?”
“They’re the first place people thought of heading to. The bay is unpredictable in winter, you can attest to that. What happens if a storm comes up and you’re stuck out there with no food? We can’t move. We went up the mountain when my wife was heavily pregnant. Now we have a little girl. She will sing for Ireland one day. With the set of lungs she has on her, half the country might have already heard her. I can’t bring her down, she’d only draw the infected.”
Fin di
d not know whether to offer congratulations or condolences. I never thought about pregnant women. Giving birth must have been scary enough with the aid of modern medicine, but now there are no doctors, nurses or anesthesia. “I see why you’re holding out for a helicopter.”
“I can’t complain. Most days you wouldn’t see the church on the mountain because it’s shrouded by clouds. Nobody wants to make the climb, I’ve spoken with a few groups that set up camp around the base, but that’s only to wait out the faster ones. Each evening it gets harder to leave. I keep thinking that we should be moving on, that our window of safety to leave is gone. It petrifies me to think that I should have left yesterday. I’ve been to the camp at Westport House. They’re friendly enough, but there are too many downsides. You could do me a favour though.”
Fin was not overly keen on agreeing to favours. “What is it?”
“If there ever comes a time you don’t see my light for a few days, would you come check on my family? Or let those in Westport House know? I’m going further out by the day to scrounge up what I can. It’s only a matter of time before I’m nabbed. My wife is formidable, but it would put my mind at ease knowing that should my luck run out, they will be safe.”
“Of course I will. I look forward to meeting them.”
Malachy clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Fin. Right, the sooner we start, the sooner we finish. Break’s over. It only gets tougher from here.”
30
The Death Zone
One of the only things Fin remembered from his first climb up Croagh Patrick was that the photo he took at the top was one of his most liked profile pictures. He had forgotten how steep the incline was and how arduous the hike could be for one so unfit. Come on, old people do this barefoot. Before the outbreak, when he did summit, it was summer. Little crowds gathered in traffic jams, patiently waiting for those ahead to take pictures. The wind blew so fiercely that he thought it picked up the loose, jagged rocks to cut him, but it was only hail.