Scott got closer to the door. He drew his gun and trained it on the plane door. It slowly opened, and a woman stepped out of the smoke. Scott could see a small fire behind her.
“Freeze!” Scott yelled, firing a safety shot into the air.
“Please…” the woman coughed. “Don’t sh…shoot.”
“Get down on the ground, now!”
She fell out of the plane. Scott could see that she was covered in blood. Her hair was matted to her skull, and the clothes she wore were torn to ribbons. Scott approached with caution. She wasn’t dead; she was wheezing and coughing. He kept the gun trained on her.
“Have you got it?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, just coughed.
“Have you got it, damn it?!” he yelled.
“There’s more inside – help them! Before he gets them!” she managed to scream.
Scott moved away – I don’t need this shit. I have to get out of here. He scanned the area for another car. For anything. Anything that could get him away from this screeching woman and her problems. Then it came at him from the plane. An infected. He tried to aim his gun, but was too slow. The mask was pulled from his face by the sick man, and Scott took in a sharp breath of air – I’m dead, he thought.
The thing took him to ground; there they wrestled until Scott managed to get his gun under the thing’s throat and pulled the trigger. The bullet came whizzing out of its skull, splashing its brains all over the plane.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he shouted. Still on the floor, he tried to scrabble away from the plane on his back. Just then, a young male emerged from it, carrying a small girl, followed by what appeared to be a yapping dog. He took her to safety, before returning to the plane and dragging the fallen woman out of harm’s way. Seconds later, the plane erupted in a ball of flames.
“Jesus Christ!” Scott shouted, shielding his face from the wafting heat.
“You have to help me!” Dafydd yelled over the crackling of smoking metal and popping glass.
Scott looked over at the teen, who was holding the young girl close to his chest. There was blood leaking from her forehead. Scott scrambled to his shaky legs and ambled over to them. The other woman appeared to be out cold.
“Can you shut that dog up?” Scott said.
“The dog’s owners just got blown to fucking bits! Now help me, you bastard!” Dafydd roared.
Scott recoiled, shocked by the younger man. “I—” he started.
“Please, come on!”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get us out of here – you’re the fucking army! Think of something.”
Scott looked about him and saw a string of cars further down the motorway.
“Look, down there,” he said, pointing to the vehicles. “Do you think you can carry her there?” he asked, gesturing to Amy.
Dafydd nodded, and turned to Maria. “Can you manage her?”
Scott looked at the woman – he knew he could, but he really didn’t want to help. He wanted to run away from them. He didn’t care for these people. He didn’t know them.
“Yes,” he said, reluctantly. “Let’s move, then.”
Dafydd got Amy off the ground and followed Scott, who carried Maria over one shoulder to the cars. He hoped that one of them would be open.
“Come on, Gyps,” Dafydd called.
The dog whimpered, but followed.
They tried four of the five parked cars before finding a silver Ford Mondeo open. Dafydd piled into the back with Amy and Gypsy. Scott put Maria in the front passenger seat and put her belt on. He got in the driver’s side and was relieved to find the keys in the ignition. The engine kicked into life after a few attempts. He turned the car around, and again his journey to John O’Groats was underway.
“Where are you taking us?” Dafydd wanted to know.
“John O’Groats.”
“You know about Ronaldsay?”
So they too had heard the radio broadcast.
“Yes, I do.”
“I guess you would have. You being in the army.”
Scott eyed the lad in the rear-view mirror; his blood-spattered face caused Scott to feel something akin to compassion.
“What happened up there?” Scott asked.
“On the plane?”
“Yes.”
“We didn’t know Jeff had the virus. He seemed fine this morning before we left the house.”
“Jeff?”
“The one you shot,” Dafydd said.
“So what happened?” Scott repeated.
*
Jeff levelled the plane out and kept it steady. Once steady, he asked James to come up front. Then he winced as pain from his leg shot up his body.
“Something wrong, Jeff?” June asked.
“Hmm?” he said, turning to her.
“I said is there something wrong?” she asked again, looking worried.
“Oh, erm, no, not really. Just a bit of a throb in the old leg again.”
“Maybe we should get James—”
He cut her off. “Would you mind closing the cabin door, sis?”
She looked at him intently – something was wrong. His manner was off. So was his tone.
“Of course not. Why?”
“There’s a chill coming from back there; it’s irritating my leg.”
June got up from her seat and closed the door.
“Thanks,” he said. “That’s much better already.”
June smiled and got back into her seat. She looked out of her side window – they were not that far off the ground.
“Where are we exactly, Jeff? It can’t be that much of a flight to John O’Groats?”
When he didn’t answer, June turned around to see Jeff just sitting there, transfixed. Strings of saliva hung from his listless lower lip like thick ropes. June saw a red colour creep up her brother’s neck as his nose started bleeding.
“Jesus, Jeff! You’re bleeding.”
He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Just kept staring out of the window, hands on the steering of the plane. As June watched on in horror, Jeff’s whole face turned crimson, started to smoke. Even his hands. His skin blistered and bubbled until parts popped with a yellow mucus. June screamed for James, as the realisation that her brother was infected hit her.
Jeff heard James outside the cabin door. He yanked the steering back, causing the plane to make a steep climb. This threw James all the way to the other end of the plane. He crashed against the backseats. The others started screaming and shouting.
June tried pushing the steering forward, trying to get the aircraft to level off again, but she couldn’t. Jeff leaped out of his seat and was soon on top of his sister. Clawing at her face. He started chewing at her throat. Blood splashed onto the windows and walls of the cabin. Suddenly the plane started nose-diving to the ground as it lost altitude.
Maria got out of her seat, much to the protest of Amy and Dafydd, and made her way to the cockpit. The door flew open as Jeff rushed her. She ducked his outstretched arms and got behind him. But Jeff was on her, grabbing her by the hair, pulling her backwards, and almost to ground.
Maria fought to get out of his grip, but Jeff was much too strong. He pinned her to the floor. The slobber hanging from his mouth was in danger of getting into hers as he got his face close to hers.
Then he was off her. She was free to get up and try to make it to the cockpit. She had been saved by James, who now had Jeff in a bear hug. By the time she got to the controls, tacky with blood, the plane was hovering over a motorway. She sat down just as they ploughed into a moving 4x4.
Maria was thrown forward, and her face smashed against the dials and controls; her head bounced off the roof as she was violently flung around in her seat, and then the cabin. Seats in the back, along with Dafydd’s, were ripped up and tossed about. The plane smashed, bumped and ricocheted its way along the motorway.
Amy, who held fast to Gypsy, yelped in pain with the violent movement, prayed her seat would not come
unstuck. Dafydd could do nothing but watch, as he was pinned under his seat.
As the plane bounded off a jack-knifed lorry, James was thrown to the ceiling of the plane. He landed on one of the upturned seats which had been ripped free; the metal legs punctured his chest, killing him instantly.
Dafydd managed to unbuckle himself from his seat and crawl free from beneath it as the plane came to a complete halt. He got over to Amy first, who was screaming and crying uncontrollably. He shook her to try and calm her down.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he told her. He could see Jeff was unmoving, and that James was dead. He tried not to look at the bloody, metal spikes poking out of James.
“Come on, Amy, let’s go. Now!”
She sniffled, and choked out a reply. “What about Maria, and June?”
“I’ll go and check on them,” he said.
“Is James okay?”
Dafydd looked down. “No, he’s dead.”
He heard Amy gasp, and just as he looked up her head slumped to one side. She’d passed out.
“Amy,” he said, shaking her by the shoulder. She didn’t move or say anything. Dafydd sighed, and beckoned Gypsy down off Amy’s lap so that he could undo her seatbelt. Before scooping her out of her seat, Dafydd checked on the cockpit.
First he caught sight of June – her throat had been torn open; one eye gouged out; her cheeks and forehead clawed to ribbons. Maria was under her seat, moaning and holding her mouth, which was spewing blood. Her face was cut all over, and she was bleeding from the ears.
Dafydd helped Maria up and over to the door of the plane. He went back to Amy and Gypsy. The youngster was still out cold. Dafydd heard Maria open the door and step outside just as a small fire burst into life behind him.
“Shit, she’s going to go up,” he said, and dragged Amy from her seat.
*
“I heard you shouting at Maria,” Dafydd said to Scott.
“I see. And you have no idea what happened to Jeff?”
“No. But I’m guessing he was sick, like,” he said. “Will we be safe out on Ronaldsay?”
They looked at each other in the rear-view mirror for a few moments, before Scott answered the teenager’s question.
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to hurt us?”
“Why would we want to do that?”
“I was told that the army have been seen killing innocent people.”
“And who told you that?” Scott said.
“Amy,” he said.
“That girl with you?”
Again their eyes met in the mirror; Scott’s, Dafydd thought, seemed somewhat warm – helpful. There was also fear there. But he still wasn’t sure whether they could trust this man. But then again, he had just saved them.
He was confused, unsure. He was only young, and these decisions were too big for him. If he was to follow Scott, then he could get them all killed. Despite that, he knew he would have to trust this soldier.
“Yes. She’s my friend, and has no reason to lie.”
“Okay. Well, I can assure you that I am not going to hurt you, and neither will the soldiers at Ronaldsay. They only want to help.”
“So why would my friend tell me that she’s seen soldiers killing innocent people. Was she lying?”
Scott sighed. “No, she was not lying.”
Dafydd gasped and stiffened in his seat.
“It’s okay, calm down. I’ll explain it to you,” Scott said. “I’m taking it you have come from Wales?”
“Yes,” Dafydd said. “The south – Cardiff.”
“And your friends?”
“I’m not really sure about Maria in the front there, like, but Amy is from the Rhondda Valleys.”
“I see. Well, the whole thing started in a town just outside Cardiff by the name of Twsc. There’s a military and scientific research barracks there, that—”
“I know,” Dafydd said. “I knew someone who worked there.”
“You did? Who was it?”
“My mam,” he said.
“She was killed at work?”
“Yes,” he said, and left it at that. He didn’t want this man knowing his mother may have started the whole thing off, nor did he want some stranger thinking bad of her. Because no matter what she may or may not have done, he still loved her.
“Sorry to hear that, lad.”
“It’s okay.”
Nothing was said for a little while, then Scott spoke again:
“It started at that facility, and nobody is sure how, or what happened. The south Wales area was hit hard and fast. It caught the army and government by surprise. They panicked, and sent in execution squads to try and stamp it out – but come morning it was rife in the U.K.”
“So you bastards just thought you’d kill innocent people?”
“I never killed anyone who wasn’t infected. Besides, I wasn’t a soldier posted in south Wales. I was sent to the English borders along with a load of other soldiers to try and stop it from getting up here.”
“Well, that was a waste of time!” Dafydd said scornfully.
“Yeah, it was. It had slipped through the borders long before we arrived – we just didn’t know.”
They drove in silence for a few miles, leaving the motorway and joining small country-like roads. Amy came around. She asked questions about what had happened, and why Jeff, June and James were not with them. She’d been scared of Scott at first, thinking he was bad after seeing what the soldiers had done to people in her home town; Scott managed to put Amy at ease, much like he had done with Dafydd.
Then, just a couple of miles out of John O’Groats, Maria came around in a screaming fit. Scott swerved the car, almost crashing into a huge signpost. She beat her fists against him, scratched at his face, tried pulling at the steering wheel.
Amy started crying and Dafydd tried yelling at Maria to stop. Gypsy howled as Scott wrestled Maria off the wheel, pinning her in her seat.
“Stop it. For God’s sake, stop it, woman!” he yelled, causing silence to fall inside the car. “Calm down. Maria. Is that your name? Maria?”
She gulped and nodded her head frantically.
“Now, please, let’s all just take a deep breath and calm down,” Scott said. “I’m trying to help us get out of this mess.”
“My mouth,” Maria said, crying. “It hurts. I think I may have broken my jaw.”
“No, you wouldn’t be able to talk or move your mouth if you had,” Scott said, smiling. “We need to stop and get you cleaned up. I think we’re only a mile off John O’Groats. Once we get there, we’ll make a stop.”
Maria nodded, just as they passed a sign saying – Welcome to John O’Groats.
Chapter 19
Scott drove the jeep through the main road of John O’Groats slowly, keeping his eyes peeled for any danger. The place looked like every other town he had seen in the last few days: barren, empty. Dead. Nothing appeared to be moving. Doors to some houses stood open and dead bodies were scattered here and there.
Wrecks were abandoned on the road, by curbs and in driveways. The population of the small northerly town was only three hundred, so there was not going to be much else to see, apart from a few burnt-out houses, and collapsed buildings.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Scott said. “There’s nothing left!”
Maria wept, she didn’t know why. Amy and Dafydd huddled close to each other in the back of the car, with Gypsy between them.
Just up ahead of them the famous Journey’s End came into sight: an old sign post tourists came to see. The man working the attraction asked where you lived, and would put up, in white blocks with numbers on them, how many miles away it was from John O’Groats so you could have your photo taken under it. Scott knew this. He had stood under the white arrows before, while on a holiday to the town a few years back.
To the left of the tourist attraction was John O’Groat’s House, which was once used as a hotel, but had long since fallen into disrepair; windows were boarded
up, the doors sealed shut. No longer a tourist hotspot, Scott thought. To the right of the house was a cluster of shops to snare the out-of-towners.
“We may be able to find you a medical kit over there, somewhere,” Scott said to Maria, who was still weeping and holding her mouth. She nodded.
“You two okay back there?” Scott asked.
“Yeah, we are fine,” Amy answered for them both.
“Good. Not much longer and we will be in safe hands, I promise,” Scott told all of them.
Dafydd made eye contact with the soldier in the rear-view mirror, and nodded.
“I might need your help down on the harbour, son,” Scott said.
Again, Dafydd nodded.
“You ever handled a gun before?”
“Yes,” the youngster said, his voice hoarse.
“That’s good.”
Scott parked the car right outside a shop that looked appropriate: a largish supermarket which looked like a glorified Spar. He looked for the name of the place, but along with the glass, doors and most of the roof, the name had gone. Just one large letter hung over the roof. It had come undone, and dangled like a broken pendulum in the window.
“Right, you lot stay here until I get back. I won’t be long.”
Maria nodded.
“I could do with using the toilet,” Amy said.
“Me too,” Dafydd said.
Scott sighed. “Right, let me go in first, and make sure the place is safe, okay?”
They both agreed.
Scott got out of the car and drew his Browning. Just outside of the automatic slide doors, which stood apart, he stopped and listened. The whistle of the wind was sharp against his ears, and could close out any noise of footfalls close by. It was useless. He went inside.
Most of the overhead lights in the supermarket were either smashed, pulled from the ceiling, or blinking on and off, casting the shadows back. The place stank of spilt blood and rotten flesh; the air had a salty taste to it.
Flies buzzed around Scott, unseen. He spotted the cashier lying slumped over a till. Blood had trickled out of the mouth and down the front of the till they’d been using. It was dry and crusted. He averted his eyes, and moved down one of the few aisles with a flashing light over it.
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