My shivering is increasing. I need to finish up. My hands search around the outskirts of the shower cubicle and soon find a bottle of shampoo or shower gel, I have no idea which. I squirt a large dollop into my hair and start to give myself a thorough washdown.
With some relief, I finally turn the shower off; if only it had been hot. Now I just need to get to one of the towels that I know hang on the right, on a rail, on the wall.
I am forced to rest yet again when I finish drying myself, sitting on top of the damp towel, just outside the cubicle. My body aches and my energy levels are low, I feel so weak, but at least the shivering has stopped.
The Rabids are quiet; there was a bit of commotion when the shower went off, it didn’t last, however. My legs are better and have feeling in them. I move them around on the floor to try and get them working better. Any minute now I am going to have to try and stand on them; I can’t keep crawling, although my confidence isn’t high.
Through the glass-walled cubicle, a glimmer of light shines through the water droplets that cling onto the glass. It has to be coming from under the door. Is the sun coming up? Have I been here that long? It wouldn’t surprise me. I have been in a terrible state. If days had passed, I would have no trouble believing it.
The prospect of light spurs me on. The time has come to see if I can stand and use my legs, no matter how much it is going to hurt. I use the wall and the glass door frame of the cubicle to steady myself and for leverage. My arms scream as I pull up on the door frame, trying to get onto my knees. My legs are not playing along, and the assistance they give is feeble. What hope is there that they won’t buckle under me when I go to stand? With my head against the glass for balance, my right arm pulls under my right knee to move that leg into position, onto its foot to stand me up. The effort is nearly overwhelming. I am panting, out of breath like I’ve just run the hundred meters. Controlling my breathing, I take a deep couple of breaths and go for the big push up.
A funny wailing noise escapes my throat as the muscles in my leg contract. The strain is enormous as my right leg pushes and my arms pull against the door frame. Pain shoots to my brain from every part of my body as I slowly rise. As I go, I try to get my left leg involved to help but it won’t cooperate, I can’t bring it into position so that the foot is flat on the floor. My arms pull harder to compensate and my right leg keeps pushing. Determined not to give up and fall back down, gradually my leg straightens until finally the knee goes back and it locks into position with one last agonising jolt.
Fuck me, how the mighty have fallen, I think to myself. I powered across the roof above me not so long ago, running from a horde of Zombies. Now it takes every ounce of energy I have to just about stand up.
At last, my left foot decides to get involved and I manage to get it grounded. Now, my breathing takes on the sound of someone who has just run a marathon, rapid and harsh. I daren’t move until it calms down. My head is dizzy, and I cling onto the door frame for dear life. I doubt I’d have it in me to do that again if I fall or collapse back down.
After an age, my head clears and my breathing recovers. With my hands still gripping the door frame, I try bending my knees, one at a time at first. The right one performs pretty well, but the first time I try the left, it trembles and almost gives way before it does lock back into position. I try it again and again before the bloody thing remembers what it is doing, and it stops trying to collapse. Finally gripping tightly with my hands, I bend both legs at the same time and then straighten them. They complete their task; I won’t be taking part in any races right now, but my legs are working.
I’m eager to get to the door, to get to the light, but I need something before I dare to crack the door open. My Sig, which is still inside the cubicle, on top of the well, just inside the door. I thought about bringing it up with me but decided against it. I needed both hands free to get me upright and as I’m stark bollock naked, there was nowhere else to put it. I don’t delay this latest challenge and with a few dramas along the way, the Sig is soon in my grip.
With no more excuses, I start shuffling over toward the door, using the cubicle to steady myself. I am full of trepidation about opening the door even though I am all but sure there are no Rabids behind it, in the office. If there were, they would have made themselves known by now. I don’t take it for granted though; my guard is up, not that I’m in any state for a fight, not by a long chalk.
The bones in my feet feel so fragile, giving the impression they could crumble and snap with each shuffled step. In my hand, the Sig knocks against the glass as my hands support me on my slow journey. I keep averting my eyes to look at the light at the bottom of the door, like an addiction, afraid it could disappear. I can’t wait to get out of this tomb, and I hope I never have to return to this godforsaken place. I will have to come back inside though; when I’m ready, I will need to get my belongings and equipment.
Coming to the end of the cubicle, I turn the corner and my hands move onto the wall that the door is built into. I am now very close to the door which I feel in just a few steps and my anxiety rises. My last few shuffles bring me to the other side of the door and to the door handle, and my left-hand curls around it, ready to open the mechanism. Before I turn the handle, I take a moment to prepare myself as best I can. I look down at the dull light that comes under the door to try and get my eyes adjusted to light as much as possible. I don’t want to be squinting as the door opens because my eyes haven’t seen light in so long.
Naked in the dark, I am totally underprepared if anything unexpected does happen when the door opens. I gather my courage and tighten my grip on the Sig. It’s now or never. Slowly, the handle turns in my left hand until the mechanism frees from the door frame and the door is poised to swing in. Moving further to the right, so that my eyes are in line with the edge of the door, I crack it open.
Light streams into my eyes and for a moment, I can’t see anything as they squint and rush to adjust to the blinding light. My exercise to get them adjusted prior to opening the door proves to be an almost total failure.
Fresh air chases in the light and while my eyes may complain, my open mouth and nostrils certainly don’t. They breathe in the new source of air greedily, filling my welcoming lungs to capacity.
Quickly, my blinking eyes recover and start to focus as the fresh air gives my brain a new lease of life. The first thing I register is that the light in the room beyond the door isn’t as bright as I first thought and is actually quite dull. The initial assault of light had played tricks on my eyes. Now that they are adjusted, I see that the sun coming through the windows is weak. Whether that is because the sun is on its way up or down, or because it is still blocked by cloud and smoke, I don’t yet know.
The Sig is raised next to my head ready to defend myself. My trusted pistol isn’t needed, however, not yet. I scan the office, taking in the horror laid out before me. Two contorted bodies in the centre of the floor make up the centrepiece of the carnage. One is face down in virtually the middle of the floor, the first Rabid I shot as it followed me down from the roof. The second body is face-up with its shoulders and head propped up on the legs of the first body, and its legs are bent and twisted to one side. It is the first time I get a proper look at the Rabid that sliced my cheek with its nails and infected me. I look at the dead face with dread and its dead eyes stare back at me, its mouth gaping. Chills run down my spine as I look at the bald middle-aged bearded man who put me where I am now. He scared the shit out of me when he attacked, but now he looks like an averagely built dead corpse. Hard to believe the terror and power he once possessed.
The rest of the office is as I expected, a mess. The equipment we brought down to get into the safe is strewn across the floor where it was left, along with the rubble from the roof. Wires still run up to the safe door which is wide open, and ropes hang down the singed black wall from the hole above. The cleaners are going to have one hell of a time sorting it out, I joke to myself.
At the f
ar side of the office, the door is still blocked by the desk, giving me the confidence to open the bathroom door and move out into the office. I shuffle around the opening door, being careful on my aching feet. My eyes are fixed on the hole in the roof. I don’t know what happened up there in the end and what the current situation is. For all, I know Rabids are still alive up there and could attack through the hole at any moment.
Moving out into the office, steadying myself on the door frame, I feel my head go light and my legs go weak from the exertion and need to rest for a moment.
I nearly jump out of my skin as I go to sit on the arm of the couch next to me. Sir Malcolm’s body is lying across the couch as if he is taking a nap. I wasn’t expecting it and didn’t see the body until I went to sit. Dried blood stains his cheeks either side of his yawning mouth, the remnants of shooting himself through the roof of his mouth. I am sure if I looked, I would find the back of his head blown away. I don’t touch the old fella though. I just take a perch next to him on the arm of the couch, rest for a moment and wonder how it came to this.
Sitting there, I look over my battered body. My skin is absolutely covered in injuries. Scrapes and cuts on my skin are overwhelmed by the bruises. My arms and body have multiple bruises over them. From small light-coloured shallow ones to big deep ones that range from dark grey to almost black in colour at the centre of them. One on the right side of my belly is particularly black and red raw around the edges, with a small scab in the centre of it. That is where I stabbed myself with the syringe, in my frenzy I vaguely remember, flinch from the memory of the agony it brought.
Either side of the couch arm, my legs protrude down to the floor and it is they that have by far the biggest bruises. One virtually covers the whole side of my left thigh in a rainbow of colours, but bruises flow across both legs melding together, especially down the sides. My skin is almost as camouflaged as if I still had my combat uniform on.
Trying to look on the positive side, I take solace in the fact that my meat and two veg are still intact, resting between my legs on the arm of the couch.
Chapter 14
I’ve made it out of the darkness and look at the only other piece of equipment I have on me, apart from the Sig. I am pleased to see the second hand on my watch is still moving, so I assume that the time the watch shows me is accurate. The time is coming up to ten past five, but is that in the morning or afternoon? I have no idea—and what day? I look again and the date on the watch tells me it is only the day after the mission, which is some relief. I have been out of it for hours, not days, but that could be about fourteen hours or twenty-six hours? The dull light coming into the room doesn’t tell me what part of the day it is. The sun could be coming up or going down and I can see out the window that smoke still hangs in the air, only adding to the mystery.
I look at the time again and log it. Then I fumble to pull out the winder on the side of the watch. I wind the time forward until it passes twelve, but as it does the date doesn’t click to the next day. It is ten past five in the morning, meaning about fourteen hours have elapsed since I was infected and since I last saw Josh. I wind the time back to ten past five and press the winder back in.
Josh must have gone back to Heathrow, back to Emily. Are they still there, and how can I contact them or get to them? I’ve got to work that out, but in the meantime, I’ve got to get myself together. I’m going to have to move the desk away from the door and leave the office. I’m weak and naked, and if I’m going to find my children, I need to get my shit sorted.
An audible rumble emanates from my stomach which takes me by surprise. I don’t feel hungry—in fact, I feel queasy and sick. Is my body calling for food, can it handle it? Is the sick feeling caused by hunger? I hadn’t considered that; I had just assumed I was nauseous because of the infection.
Pushing myself up from the arm of the couch and back onto my delicate feet, I am still extremely weary. I have never been so drained. Nothing comes close, not even the culmination of SAS selection. I shuffle steadily over to the wall of the office on my left and then with one hand steadying me on the wall, I make my way along the office until I reach the blocked door that leads out into the lounge of this floor. I make my way around the desk to get to the side of the door that opens. My feet feel the debris and dust that covers the floor. I’m careful not to tread on any lumps, the thought of the pain they would cause my feet sending a shiver down my spine. The carpet and rug are rough and crusty in places with dried black blood, which is impossible to avoid stepping on.
Sir Malcolm’s desk is heavy and in my weakened state, it takes considerable effort and pain to shunt it off the door. With the desk away from the door, enough to allow it to open slightly, I carefully open it a small amount so that I can see out into the lounge beyond. I daren’t move the desk any more until I am sure the coast is clear.
Through the open gap, I see in the dim light that the lounge is in the same condition as it was left in. No Rabids have broken into the area. Satisfied, I heave at the desk a couple more times until the door opens enough for me to get through.
As I leave the office into the larger area, I am suddenly self-conscious of my nakedness. I am used to it being a busy bustling workplace and here I am with my tackle out, about to streak across the lounge. At least the CCTV isn’t working, I hope!
My plan was to go straight to my office and make use of the change of clothes I keep in there. My stomach wants to direct me to the kitchen, though, which I suppose is a good sign. I am split between covering my modesty or going straight to the kitchen to try and eat something. In the end, I decide on the kitchen. I need energy, so I will attempt a small snack and then go to my office. If the snack goes down okay and settles while I’m getting dressed, I will return to the kitchen.
Crossing the lounge is a struggle and I have to pause at different islands of chairs and couches to lean on and rest. Finally, I make it to the kitchen and as tempting as it is to sit in one of the chairs as soon as I arrive and get my breath back, the first thing I do is go to put the kettle on. Stupidly, it isn’t until I have lifted the kettle to fill it with water, that I remember there is no power. Bloody idiot, I think as I drop the kettle back down, my craving for a coffee making me want to scream.
The kitchen table still has the remains of the food on it that Catherine arranged for our arrival. None of it looks very appetising now after having been there for a couple of days. I’ve eaten worse but decide to check the fridge. Excellent; there is a plate of cellophaned sandwiches on the middle shelf. My left hand manages to pick it up and I turn and place it onto the table, the Sig isn’t about to leave my right hand.
Every tooth in my head hurts as I chew the two sandwiches that I allow myself and my throat protests as it swallows them down. The food does go down though, despite a couple of urges and I have to make do with a can of coke I discovered in the fridge. Whether it settles or not, time will tell.
I could quite easily take a nap when I finish eating, and my eyelids weigh heavily. The caffeine in the coke is no substitute for a coffee and does nothing to combat my tiredness. I force myself out of the chair, however, ready for the long trek to my office.
At a slower pace than a decrepit old man, I eventually open the door to my office. On the right, next to the small two-seater couch is a tall cupboard. I open the door to the cupboard and retrieve the sports bag that is sitting at the bottom and take it over to the couch where I sit down.
The formidable struggle to get dressed takes time but is worth every strain of my body. I almost feel human again dressed in the black jeans and dark grey sweater. Pulling on my socks and tying the laces on my boots takes the most effort; my feet feel nice and snug in them once they are on, however. Maybe I am still human after all. The food has stayed in my belly and I believe it has given me some of my energy back. The clothes have warmed me and helped return some confidence.
I still feel like shit, just not as shit as I felt before.
Getting up from the co
uch, I go over to the mirror that hangs on the back wall. I look like death warmed up and I wonder if I actually am? The scratches down my cheek feel worse than I had feared they’d look. The three scratches are about an inch long and are quite thin, and the red swelling around the dark red centres makes them look wider. I touch one with my finger; the scab is dry and rough. If there are scabs, that must mean my body is healing them, mustn’t it? Perhaps they will heal up nicely over time, or perhaps I’m kidding myself?
My shuffle has developed into a slow, short-stepped walk as I go over to the windows that look over the city behind my desk. The morning is very dull outside, and the visibility is poor. Smoke is rising from buildings in the Paddington area and from buildings beyond in the city. It doesn’t look like the new dawn has brought any relief to London.
How on earth am I going to reach Heathrow through the chaos or at least try and contact Josh or Catherine? Turning away from the windows, I think that there may be a slim chance to contact them. I leave the office and instead of going back over to the kitchen, I make my way back towards Sir Malcolm’s office and his bathroom. I pause on the way, both to take a breather and to listen at the barricaded door to the stairwell. The door is still ajar a little bit, the barricade still doing its job though and it has stopped the gap increasing. Controlling my breathing so that I can hear beyond the door, I listen carefully. I think I can hear faint noises or is it just the sound of the stairwell—I’m not sure? There is a strange smell in the air that I can’t quite place. Lifting the Sig up, I tap one of the filing cabinets with the barrel of the gun lightly. The metallic ping immediately raises groans from the other side of the door, from the creatures hidden there. The groans don’t last, they die down quickly and have stopped before I move off again.
Standing at the half-open door to the bathroom, I am not keen to re-enter. Memories of my torturous night in there return and are heightened by the foul smell that drifts out to me from within the hell hole. I try to laugh it off and tell myself it’s just a bathroom, but the memories are still raw. I have never known such pain and suffering as I experienced in there. It was a nightmare of epic proportions and one I am sure I will relive on dark nights to come if I survive.
Capital Falling (Book 3): Resurgence Page 14