by Rick Wood
“I didn’t rip them apart.”
“Okay then. What about the way they looked at you?” Gus stepped forward again. “The way they stop moving when you’re around. They did it in the compound, and they did it just now.”
“Aren’t you grateful?”
“Grateful?”
“Yeah! What just happened saved our lives.”
“Saved our lives?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Answer the question, Donny.” Gus had now stepped so far forward he was almost within Donny’s personal space. “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“Why do the infected stop when you’re around?”
“They don’t stop–”
“Why, Donny?”
Donny looked around himself uncomfortably. “Look–”
“Why!”
“Gus, man, quit it, I can’t–”
“Answer the bloody question!”
“I don’t know!”
Silence.
Uncomfortable, prolonged, tense, silence.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Gus persevered.
“I mean, I don’t know.”
“Just tell us why they do it, Donny.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t, because I don’t know.”
“Or won’t because you’re up to something?”
“Can’t because I–”
Donny covered his face. Gus pulled his hands away. Donny was crying.
“What happened to you in that compound?”
Donny covered his face again, shaking his head. Gus pulled his hands away once more. Still crying.
“Quit it, Donny, and tell me – what happened in the compound?”
Donny turned his body away. Gus pulled Donny back, forcing Donny to look at him.
“Please,” Donny begged.
“Tell me what happened in that compound.”
“Gus, I – I don’t know.”
Donny fell to his knees. Covered his face. Wept. His body convulsing. He tried wiping his tears away and stopping, but he couldn’t stop. He wanted to, but he couldn’t.
Gus looked over his shoulder, back at the others. They were all looking at him like they didn’t know what to do. All answers eluded them. None of it made any sense.
Gus knelt down, taking Donny’s hands away – but this time, slowly. With care. He placed his hand on the back of Donny’s head with an affectionate touch.
“Donny,” Gus said. “You’re my friend.”
“You’re my friend,” Donny insisted.
“Then tell me what happened.”
“I would if I could, Gus. I really would. I just – I don’t know. I don’t know. I just know, they were awful things. Really, really, awful things.”
Gus nodded.
Donny was telling the truth.
They stayed at the same level for a few minutes, letting the conversation settle, the tension escape, the tears end.
Eventually, Desert tapped Gus on the shoulder and indicated with a nod of the head that he should look at the sky.
It was getting dark.
“There’s a farmhouse in the distance, Whizzo saw it through his binoculars. Maybe a mile. We should get moving, before it’s so dark we can’t see anything.”
Gus reluctantly nodded.
He helped Donny to his feet and they kept moving.
The Journal of Doctor Janine Stanton
Day 4
Transcript from webcam journal by Janine Stanton, fourth entry
I…
Jeeze.
(sighs)
I, er…
How do I start?
Honestly, how do I – after that – how do I – how do I even…
(long pause)
I did something stupid today.
Well, stupid’s a point of view.
Stupid is as stupid does, my grandma used to say. Then she went senile and tried to eat her own hand. I don’t think she’s…
(chuckles)
(cries)
I tried to sabotage it. Tried to… to… mess… it all up. To end it. To save this subject – to save Donny – from the fate I no doubt believe they have in store for him.
I really don’t think he did this willingly.
I think the best thing for him would be to just…
(briefly closes eyes)
So here were the quantities in my latest dose:
* * *
50% blood of mutation
20% blood of infected
5% blood of subject
15% ketorolac
10% cortisone
0% water
* * *
I took away the water. Increased the infection. I’ll be honest, I hoped it would kill him. I’m no murderer, but there’s only one way out for this guy, just one way, and that’s – and that’s–
(closes eyes)
(drops head)
(long pause)
(lifts head)
(wipes eyes)
He didn’t turn. But his body – his body changed, somehow. Like it was reacting. Not reacting as in fighting it but reacting as in – changing. Mutating. Moulding the, whatever it is, into something else.
I think I know what I’m doing here.
I think I know what they intend for me to create.
And I think – I think I know what they did to him in the other room. Before. With Doctor Emma Saul.
I read her thesis.
She is an expert in conditioning perceptions. In twisting the way one takes in the world. Making you hate someone you love. Making you decide against your way of life.
She did it with war prisoners. Her PhD, she was turning war prisoners against the opposition and sending them back. Conditioning someone completely against the way of life, their way of life, what they knew, everything they’d become, turning someone against everything they know and everything they–
(pause)
I heard rumours.
There’s this place, or group, or something, called the AGA.
I don’t know what it stands for, but apparently, they are planning some kind of uprising. Or, at least, they were. They were planning something.
But where are they, then? We’ve been here for months. Where are they? What’s taking them so long?
But, what if the sub– Donny – has something to do with this?
Could he be from the AGA? Could he know of them, could he, I don’t know, have something to do with them?
In which case, what are we doing to him? Why are we doing this? And what the hell is it we’re doing?
Are we turning him against them? Then sending him back, dosed up on this… stuff… I’m putting into him?
I really think I should have thought this through.
I chose this because I was taking the cowardly way out. I was thinking, do whatever keeps me alive, whatever means they may release me, let me get back to my family, see if they are alive, still there, because I haven’t heard from them, and – and – it turned out, I think they probably have no intention of letting me go. I was doing this all under false pretences.
No, I don’t think that.
Not any longer.
I know it.
I know I am never getting out of here.
I should have chosen death.
Yeah, someone else may have taken my place, but I could have taken my research with me. Burnt the room, me in it, my papers, my synthesis, taken all of it down with me. Maybe all the samples they got me from the girl – yeah, they could get more, but it would at least delay them, and then – and then I’d hope that the next person to discover the synthesis I discovered would destroy it too. Would destroy everything. Stop this madness.
It wouldn’t last forever. But it would at least last until these AGA people got here. Keep delaying until they arrived, saved me, saved us, saved Donny, done everything they could to kill Eugene Squire.
(
shakes head)
Eugene Squire.
Am I too trusting?
Or am I an idiot?
Because, you know what? I’m happy for him to see this.
Yeah, I’m speaking to you, Eugene.
You pompous, psychopathic arsehole.
I’m happy for you to see this.
I’m happy for you to use it as reason to take me off this case, lock me up, kill me, whatever – there is nothing you can do to me anymore. Nothing that will void the shit you’ve made me do. Look at the person I’ve become. Questioning myself, questioning everything. I should have questioned it at the start.
I should have…
(bows head)
Why didn’t I question it?
(sobs)
Why didn’t I…
(inhales)
The subject will wake up soon. I don’t want him to be alone.
I best go.
I hate you, Eugene.
I hate you.
10 HOURS TO TRAP
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Gus enjoyed the setting of the sun in the distant horizon for the first time in a while. Strange how it was nature’s defects that created the world they now lived in, yet it was nature’s beauty that gave them their release.
Everyone was sprinting toward the farmhouse Whizzo had seen, eager to find out whether it would be a hospitable resting place for the night. Gus had noticed, however, that Whizzo had fallen behind, fiddling with something in his bag. Gus went over to see what was delaying him.
“Hey, kid,” Gus said. “You don’t want to be left behind and get eaten, do you? What’s the matter?”
“I’m not a kid,” Whizzo replied, still rummaging through his bag.
“Okay, I’ll stop calling you kid. I guess you’ve earnt the right. But you shouldn’t stay out here alone.”
“I know,” the kid replied. “I wanted to show you something. Something cool I’ve been working on.”
Gus looked down at his new leg. Whizzo was undeniably creative, he’d give him that.
“Okay,” Gus replied, “hit me with it. What’ve you got?”
Whizzo opened the bag and pulled out a shotgun – except, it was no longer a conventional shotgun. The muzzle had been widened. The barrel had been tampered with in an obscure way; its shape had been moulded. Attached to the magazine was no space for ammunition, but instead, numerous boxes of lighter fluid held in place. Attached behind that was a box – no, more of a minitank – like a petrol cannister, but smaller.
The thing looked bizarre.
“What the hell have you done to that gun?” Gus asked, bemused.
“This isn’t no ordinary gun anymore,” Whizzo replied, his face full of pride. “Just you wait until you see.”
Whizzo lifted the gun, placed it sturdily on his shoulder, then pointed it at the nearest tree.
“You may want to stand back,” he urged Gus.
Gus took a few paces backwards.
Whizzo, grinning wildly, giddy with excitement, took aim and pulled the trigger.
A click sounded, followed by nothing.
“What the…”
He pulled the trigger again.
A click, then a choking. A gurgle from the tank. A splutter of liquid from the muzzle, spewing a few drops that landed in a pool the multicolour rainbow of petrol.
Whizzo dumped the weapon, withdrew a screwdriver, and started taking apart the numerous lighter fluid boxes fixed to the gun’s base.
“I take it that wasn’t it?” Gus said.
“No!” Whizzo snapped. “No, it wasn’t. Dammit!”
He continued to tamper.
“What was it meant to do?” Gus asked.
“It’s meant to be a flamethrower.”
“A flame thrower? You know, they have already been invented.”
As soon as Gus said it, he knew he was being a dick, and urged himself to stop.
“Yes, but this is better. This was going to be a smaller, compact flamethrower, one that we can actually legit carry – yeah, it’s got all the stuff attached, but it ain’t as big as a flamethrower – but even so, it’s meant to be more powerful. Like, have longer bursts of fire, have better aim and a wider landing. It could take out a whole row of the infected, and then fit back in your bag.”
Gus couldn’t help but admire the ambition. What a weapon that would be – it could take out masses of the infected, assuming that being set on fire was enough to kill them. It would do what would take a far longer period of time to do with a knife or regular gun.
But, let’s be honest – this was farfetched. An ambitious project, even for the most resourceful and able minds.
Gus wasn’t surprised it hadn’t worked.
“Look,” he said, trying to be helpful. “It was a nice idea, but maybe you’re just being a little, I don’t know – too ambitious.”
“What?” Whizzo scolded.
“The leg you made me was fantastic, and don’t get me wrong, I am so appreciative. But you need both the mind and the resources to do something like that – something many people haven’t been able to create. I know my weapons, and I don’t know if you would even be able to convert something the size of a shotgun into–”
“Right, okay!” Whizzo snapped. “I get it. You don’t think I’m good enough.”
“That’s not what it is.”
“Good. ’Cause you’re wrong. I’ll make it work. I’ll show you.”
Gus sighed. Decided not to say any more. It was best just to get them both to safety.
“Okay,” Gus said. “You can sort it out later. Let’s just get to the farmhouse. We need a good night’s sleep.”
Whizzo followed Gus, sulking like a stroppy teenager. He had the gun in his hand, tampering with it the whole way.
Then he noticed what it was.
The barrel had been squeezed too tight. That was easy to fix. He could do it, he was sure of it.
But this time, he would wait to demonstrate what he’d created. They all thought he was so useless in a fight, but when he pulled something like this out, he’d show them. All of them.
He’d show them exactly what he was capable of.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Gus traced the outline of the stars, waving his hand over space, effortlessly touching them with the small pressure of his fingertips.
The farmhouse they’d found was more of a small cottage, one that looked like it had been deserted for a while. It was behind numerous fields Gus assumed were once filled with cattle. The cottage itself was dark and dank, with many corners with many cobwebs and many walls covered with many layers of damp. Moisture hung on the air, and Gus could feel it on his tongue and the dryness of his throat. Its stench combined with the odour of excess mould and dried urine, but he’d had far worse; besides, it was a roof over their head, and it was temporary. As soon as light came, Gus would be waking everyone, and they would be gone. As such, he knew he should get some sleep himself, but his mind was not as weary as his body. Whilst his arms cramped and his leg ached – proving once again that his actual leg was inferior to his new one – his mind was perplexed with thoughts. There were a hundred issues with a hundred possible consequences and no definite answers; barely even any feasible solutions.
“Can’t sleep?” came Desert’s voice. She placed a reassuring hand on Gus’s back, and he returned it with a forced smile. She leant against the windowsill, and Gus continued to stare at the stars.
“I don’t sleep much.”
“What’s on your mind?” Desert asked. A woman who was straight to the point. Gus liked that.
Gus shook his head.
“It’s nothing,” he surmised.
“It’s Donny, isn’t it?”
Gus could neither confirm nor deny; which was obvious confirmation in itself.
“What’s up with him?” Desert asked.
Again, those hundreds of issues and solutions that eluded him fought his mind. They produced nothing of value, and nothing he could articulate.
“I don’t know,” Gus concluded.
“I take it he wasn’t always like this?”
“God, no. He used to be annoying in a different way.”
“How so?”
A distant murmur of groans captured the night air, cutting through its silence.
“He would never shut up. He struggled to have the balls to do what he needed to. But… he was loyal. I gave my leg for him.”
“Oh, is that how it happened?”
“Long story, but yes.”
Gus sighed. Desert studied his face, half cast in shadow, half covered with a vaguely luminescent glow of the moon.
“We were in that compound for months, though it felt like decades. We were all separated. I was tied to a bed and left to go crazy on my own accord. I have no idea what they did to Donny.”
“Was it Eugene Squire doing this?”
“He was involved a few times, but mainly it was lemmings acting on his orders.”
“What do you think they did to him?”
Gus shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
“There’s no way to tell. But I saw part of what they did to Sadie, right at the beginning – and they had her chained to the wall, torturing her, and they–”
He interrupted himself, closed his eyes, shook his head, shook himself out of it.
“Whatever they did to Sadie,” Gus continued, “they could have done to Donny.”
“Then why isn’t Sadie–”
“Sadie’s not like us.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. She had blood on her mouth and she didn’t turn. What’s that about?”
“She’s infected, but she’s not changed. That’s why Eugene was after her. There’s something about her immunity that he wanted to use. It wasn’t clear what.”
A moment of silence fell between them as Gus’s words turned into clarity.
“Donny’s never been able to do anything like he did today,” Gus said. “Jumping in and ripping them apart, then making them all suddenly stop. It’s got me worried. Worried that what they did to him is more than just psychological.”