by Ryan Casey
But the crackle of the static far exceeded the badness and the guilt.
He needed to play to his strengths if he was ever going to get out of here.
He closed his eyes. Remembered how he’d communicated with Donna Carter. He wasn’t sure if this would work yet, but he had to try. He calmed himself inside. Focused on the hunger. Focused first on the area in the middle of his body where it radiated from, then followed it up into his mind, into that small once-private section that was now the hub of all communication.
He focused. The room around him darkened, and yet he knew he was still there. He could see it in his mind’s eye, clearer than it was in reality.
“Sarah?” he thought. Or “said.” Or whatever the fuck he was doing.
Nothing. She stayed silent. Her panicked, pained brown eyes were wide open, staring up in fear. Dark, black blood oozed from the gaping wound on her neck, strands of brown hair matting inside it.
“Sarah?” he repeated. He could awaken her. If he focused, he could awaken her.
Again, he didn’t understand how he knew this just yet. Only that he knew. There was something inside him, guiding him to the right decisions.
You can wake her you can wake her you can wake her.
“Sarah. You need to wake up. You need to wake up now. Are you there?”
Nothing.
Then, a twitch of the eyes. A blink. A sharp inhalation, which sent a fountain of blood jetting out onto the floor like the spray tool on Microsoft Paint.
“Sarah, I need you to stay calm,” Jonny said. His eyes were open now, but he kept on speaking to that place in her mind. He was seeing Sarah in real life, waking up, trying to make sense of what had happened—what was happening—to her.
“Can you hear me, Sarah? Can you—”
A barrage of thoughts: “What’s happened what’s happened how the fuck what who did this fuck he bit me he bit me fuck Mr. Belmont gonna die gonna head cave in gonna—”
“Slow down,” Jonny said. “Slow down. I hear your thoughts. I hear yours, and you hear mine.”
Gradually, as her eyes flickered across his face, her thoughts slowed down. Her breathing slowed down. Her muscles relaxed, slowly. Very slowly.
“Are you ready to talk?” Jonny asked.
A pause. A baffled look. “How are… What is… What… Yes.”
She didn’t finish her questions because Jonny had already thought out the answers for her. And by the looks of things, she’d understood pretty fast.
“There’s something very important you and me are going to have to do,” Jonny said. He felt confident in his mind. More confident than he had ever felt in his entire life. More sure of himself—more sure of the next step, whatever ramifications it held in the future—than ever before.
“What are we going to do?”
The rapid blinks. The glimmer in her chestnut eyes. She understood. She saw what he had planned and she understood.
“Good,” Jonny said, out loud this time. “We’d better get started.”
Mr. Belmont stared at the screen in the lonely room at the end of the Quarantine corridor. More middle-of-the-night rolling news. More reports. Reanimation. Panicked reports of something spreading, although they didn’t know what yet. Only that it was very dangerous. And that people must stay indoors until the situation returned to a state of “control.”
Control. Mr. Belmont laughed. He felt the dried blood crusting against the lines in his face. He felt it over his arms and in the cracks in his hands. Control. This was what control was. He understood Turnstone better than anybody now—he and Miss Appleton understood better than anybody. And the truth was, there were no diplomatic ways of controlling it.
A blow to the head or a shot to the heart. That’s what it took. That’s what it required. It didn’t matter if they were loved ones. It didn’t matter if they were begging or pleading you not to do it. It had to be done, or Turnstone would spread, and spread, and spread. And who knew what it might do to a person once it had been in their system for a while?
He looked away from the television. The volume was on low, but he didn’t need to hear what he already knew. In the morning, people would wake up for work in a very different Great Britain. The government would hold an emergency COBRA meeting. Businesses would close. Areas would be quarantined. Eventually, flights and ferries and all movement in and out of Britain would be suspended temporarily until the situation was deemed “under control.”
The media. This was why he detested the media. Always stirring up hysteria. Always making bad situations worse.
And worse situations even worse.
He opened the door of the dark Quarantine room and stepped out into the barely lighter corridor. He’d have to check on Miss Appleton. She seemed weak. Weak, but kind of understanding in the end. And damn—she’d brought this situation upon herself, upon everybody. If she could not deal with the consequences of her actions, then she would not be strong enough in this new world.
Moving down the corridor, past the first room, he tried his best not to look back in at Mrs. Carter’s imploded head; at Doctor Ermenstein, lying on the floor with blood oozing out of his skull. He hadn’t enjoyed doing what he’d had to do to the good doctor. He wasn’t an awful man, not really. But he knew too much—about Turnstone, about Doctor Harvey, about this entire situation. He knew too much, and that was dangerous.
Dangerous for himself. Dangerous for TCorps.
Too moral. Too right.
As he got closer to the metallic silver door where he’d left Mr. Ainsthwaite and Miss Appleton a couple of minutes ago, he thought he heard something. Voices. Whispering. Conversation.
He gripped the baton even tighter and slowed his pace, taking light footsteps towards the room. Yes—there were definitely voices coming from Mr. Ainsthwaite and Miss Appleton’s room. A male voice, and a female voice. Was she talking to him? How? He’d looked beyond talking a few minutes ago.
He stopped just beside the door, which he’d stupidly left ajar. And it was a stupid decision—he knew that. But he’d only been away for a few minutes. Besides, Jonny Ainsthwaite was weak. And he was supposed to be dead now, anyway, with a knife in his head or chest. Leaving the door open might have seemed a big deal, but it couldn’t have any real ramifications.
He peeked through the reflective window. (He hadn’t liked the way Adam’s eyes peered at him through the reflective glass, somehow. Better to be safe)
His grip on his baton tightened.
Mr. Ainsthwaite was out of his bed. Beside him was Miss Appleton.
She had a gaping wound on her neck, as Mr. Ainsthwaite held her arm over his neck.
The front of his blue gown was covered with thick, near-black blood, and small pieces of flesh.
He’d got her.
Dread welled up inside Mr. Belmont. There were two Turnstone infected in the room opposite him. Two of them—the only two left standing in TCorps. The only two that could possibly lead back to TCorps, especially now he’d gotten rid of the others, which he would be sure to carefully dispose of. They were standing. They were coming his way.
He couldn’t let them leave. He couldn’t let them walk away.
He held his breath and in a swift movement, grabbed the door handle with his shaking hand and slammed the door shut. He fumbled with the latch, which stuck a few times. Mr. Ainsthwaite and Miss Appleton froze, then lurched forward at the door when they realised what was happening.
But it was too late for them.
The door was locked. No matter how hard they bashed at the reflective glass or yanked at the door, they wouldn’t get out. Mr. Belmont had been sure to have the Quarantine bay fitted with the best, most high-end protective measures. They’d been through rigorous tests, extensive research.
Mr. Ainsthwaite and Miss Appleton bashed against the glass, again and again and again.
Mr. Belmont stepped back. He thought he felt himself smiling, but he did that a lot, apparently.
No matter how hard they th
rew themselves at that glass, they weren’t going to get out.
And now he had them in one contained place, he could think about cleaning up the Quarantine Zone.
It would be messy. Much more painful than a blow to the head, his more “hands-on” way of parting with the other Turnstone infected. It would not be pleasant for Mr. Ainsthwaite and Miss Appleton.
But it was necessary. In this new world, extreme measures were necessary.
He sighed, then turned around to the small red compartment, subtly placed beneath glass on the wall behind him.
He cracked the glass as the two in the room continued to bash as hard as they could, and he pulled out the little black radio receiver.
Written on the back of the device was a note: Quarantine Decontamination Receiver—In Case of Serious Emergency.
This is a serious emergency, Mr. Belmont thought, as he lifted the antenna and keyed in the digits. This is a very serious emergency indeed.
45.
Jonny threw himself at the reflective glass with all his weight.
And again.
And again.
Nothing budged. The window didn’t flinch. He was trapped in here. Mr. Belmont had caught up to them before they had the chance to get out. Fuck—the slimy bastard had probably been watching them all along, watching while he bit into Sarah’s neck, watching and waiting for them to make a move, then snatching all chance of hope away from them, right at that moment.
“We’re screwed,” Sarah said. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The blood from her neck was still running out, staining her white shirt. But she was tugging at the handle. Biting into her lip and pulling at the door with all her strength. The hunger—it was taking hold of her already. She was finding her strength.
Jonny looked at the reflective glass. It might’ve been a one-way mirror, but he could see exactly where Mr. Belmont was. Or feel him, rather. He could feel him right in front of him. Feel the heat radiating from his terrified body. He could feel him, and he knew that whatever he was doing couldn’t be good.
“Mr. Belmont, please,” Sarah shouted. She gave up trying to pull the door open and banged her hands against the reflective glass. The tears were in full flow now. Desperation. Panic. A sense of inevitability. Something bad was going to happen to them. Something very bad.
“Please what?” Mr. Belmont mumbled from the other side of the wall. “You—you let me down. We had this under control. I had this under control. You didn’t have to try to save Mr. Ainsthwaite. Always trying to do the right thing, aren’t you? Always trying to do the right thing. That’s why you infected Mr. Ainsthwaite in the first place. Only interested in yourself, and now look. Now look at you. Look at everything.”
Sarah looked at Jonny. Her eyes were wide. The gaping wound in her neck looked surreal now that she was acting like a normal functioning human being. But she’d need something. She’d need what he needed—what they all needed. And the more she nourished herself, the stronger she’d get.
If they got out of this, that was. And that was looking grimmer by the minute. Fuck—by the second, even.
“I’m going to… to do you a favour. The pair of you. I’m going to… I’m going to end your long-term misery. You don’t—you don’t have to be a part of this new world. You don’t have to be a part of what’s ahead. But there will be short-term pain, and short-term misery.”
“Decontamination,” Sarah said, falling to her knees and leaning against the door. “Decontamination.”
Jonny didn’t have to ask what the procedure of decontamination was. He could see from the wide eyes of Sarah that it wasn’t good, whatever it was.
But there was something Mr. Belmont wasn’t aware of. Something he couldn’t possibly understand with his normal, meek human brain.
“I… I suggest you get as comfortable as possible,” Mr. Belmont said. “Get as comfortable as possible, and… God bless you. Or whatever. I don’t want to do this, but I need to clean up. I need to—”
“Fuck you!” Sarah shouted, and smacked her fist into the metal door. It made a huge thump, and Jonny figured it was the hardest punch Sarah had ever thrown in her life.
“I’m sorry to have to do this. Both of you, I really am. Ideally, we’d have figured a cure by now. Or an artificial nourishment, at the very least. Or we could even be putting Turnstone to good. For its original purpose—the old HIV cure. Wow. How things have changed.”
Jonny bit into his lip. Stared through the glass, right at where Mr. Belmont was standing with the little black device in his hand. Whatever he was doing, it was happening in this room. He’d seen enough films about quarantine and decontamination to know that there likely wasn’t going to be a scrap of them left when the process was finished. The dimples on the ceiling, like showerheads. And the drains, small but so obvious now, lining the walls. Whatever was going to happen was not going to be pleasant.
Unless Jonny’s plan worked.
Sarah was whimpering. She had her eyes tightly closed together. It was genuine remorse. Genuine fear. Not the feigned, time-buying tactic that they’d discussed before Mr. Belmont came down to this room. He could see it. Feel it. She did not think Jonny’s plan was going to work.
Jonny wasn’t sure himself. He just had to wait. He just had to hope.
He heard the sounds of buttons bleeping. “I’m sorry,” Mr. Belmont said, as he tapped on his device. “I really am sorry. But I’ve no choice. I’ve no choice.”
“Please,” Jonny shouted. Even he was feeling the doubt that Sarah was feeling now. “You… You can let us go. You can let us walk away.” The words were false. Disingenuous. So unnatural on his tongue.
Mr. Belmont tutted. He stopped inputting digits into his little remote control of decontaminated death for a second. “You know that’s not true. If only I could—”
That was when Jonny heard the smashing of glass to his right, outside on the corridor.
A mumble of words from Mr. Belmont.
A panicked struggle to input the digits.
The device hitting the floor.
Then, silence.
Sarah’s eyes opened. She stared directly at Jonny, frown on her head. He stared back at her, heart racing. There was no sound from the corridor. No bleeping from the decontamination device. No Mr. Belmont and his toxic words.
“Did it work?” Sarah asked.
The door opened.
One of them was standing there. Or one of him, rather. The one he’d contacted through his telepathy. The first one he’d managed to reach when he’d focused, focused so hard, just after eating Sarah’s neck. Because he was stronger now—stronger now he’d been fed. And Sarah, she’d helped him focus, too.
The one he’d contacted was a tall, skinny man with thin brown hair, wearing nothing over his white vest, which was duly covered with bloodstains and bitemarks.
Behind him, another one appeared. A woman, in her twenties or early thirties, short-haired. A huge chunk of her shoulder was missing—a chunk that would perfectly match up with the man’s mouth.
The pair of them nodded at Jonny, then at Sarah, and Jonny nodded back.
They didn’t have to speak. They understood.
“Yes,” Jonny said, looking at Sarah now, who had just about pulled herself to her feet. “It worked. We did it.”
46.
Mr. Belmont would’ve loved to have been able to fight the situation he’d been forced into, but instead, he was busy being forced against the floor by the two bloody-mouthed people above him.
One of them—a woman with dark, baggy eye-sacks and clumps of hair missing from her bitten scalp—had her hand over his mouth. Her hand had a metallic tang. Or maybe that was just his tongue. Maybe he’d bitten it as he’d fallen to the floor, smacking his head as they pushed him down.
As well as the woman with her hand over his mouth and the other—a boy, in fact, barely in his twenties, and with a gaping hole in his neck too—there were two others by the door where Mr. Ainsthwaite and Miss Appleton were. On
e of them opened it up. Stared inside for a few seconds. Mr. Belmont heard a few words mumbled as he felt his head being pressed further and further into the hard, cold floor. The breeze he felt, it must’ve been from the window that had been smashed down the corridor. They’d got in. Somehow, in his trying to destroy all evidence of Turnstone, Turnstone had found him.
And it had him pinned down on the floor.
He felt something warm slither against his face. When he blinked, looked the woman in the eyes, he realised it was saliva, dangling down from the corner of her mouth in a long, phlegmy bead. He could see her nostrils twitching. Her jaw clenching together. He could see it in her once-blue eyes—she wanted to eat him. Shit. She wanted to actually eat him. But something was stopping her. The same thing that had brought her here in the first place. He figured it had something to do with Mr. Ainsthwaite. After all, why else would a group of Turnstone-infected gatecrash the party?
Mr. Ainsthwaite and Miss Appleton walked out of the door. They loomed above him. Mr. Ainsthwaite’s eyes were completely focused. Unwavering from Mr. Belmont’s. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t anything. He was just watching. Eyeing up his prey.
As if by sudden command, the woman that was holding his mouth let her hand lift from Mr. Belmont’s mouth. Mr. Belmont tried to lurch forward, but she was gripping his neck now. He coughed and spluttered, struggling for air. Maybe they just wanted to hear him scream while they ate him. Maybe they just revelled in his fear.
“Just… just get it done,” Mr. Belmont gasped. He felt himself shaking. He was not confident one bit in saying those words, but they actually sounded somewhat brave and bold when they left his mouth. He wondered if the people in Hollywood movies felt the same when they said those strong martyr words.
He wondered if Keanu Reeves was shitting his pants in “The Matrix” when he realised his inevitable fate.