“But when your daughter grows up to look and behave exactly like the woman you loved, the woman you lost...” Martin looked Shaun in the eye. “Sometimes it felt like you were sleeping with my wife, not my daughter.”
For a moment, the two men sat in silence.
Then Martin stood up, the dog still close to him. He went to Lize, bent down to retrieve her body in his arms. “The boy needs you,” he said to Shaun. “Just like my daughter needs me.”
Shaun nodded.
Martin left the room, Lize in his arms, the dog following.
Shaun returned his attention to Jamie. The boy’s skin felt warm but not burning like before. He wasn’t breathing anymore. Shaun held the boy up to his face, burying his head in the soft, damp flesh.
Silently, he cried.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Chamber, County Armagh 7th August
Willis stood in the observation room, staring in through the one-way glass at Gallagher’s makeshift research lab. The doctor stood in the middle of the room, wearing his bloodstained plastic coveralls. Near him was the Colonel, or what was left of him; the rest of the older man was wrapped in clear, sealed bags and arranged on the nearby table. He was dead but, like the dead outside, still moving, his eyes staring at the doctor.
Major Jackson was strapped into a nearby chair, naked.
Gallagher proceeded to inject Jackson with something resembling blood.
Willis watched for another moment, swallowed hard, then pressed the red button on his side of the screen. “Sir, you asked for me?” he said.
Gallagher finished administering the injection before speaking.
“Ah, Willis,” he said. “Thanks for joining us. You’ve been working on repairs to the helicopter, I hear. I hope that trouble you had from the last job didn’t cause any long term damage?”
Willis recalled his recent approach of the apartment block in Finaghy, seeking out the young survivor located by The Chamber’s surveillance cameras. Of how a man, now identified as ex-IRA operative Pat Flynn, had appeared from one of the apartment’s windows and fired upon the helicopter, forcing Willis to take evasive action.
“Nothing serious, sir.”
“Good,” Gallagher said. “We’ve been monitoring the situation via the surveillance cameras. Flynn’s no longer in the picture. The block was heavily invaded by the dead, and we feared we had lost not only Flynn, but also the Fico girl. Alas, two unidentified civilian survivors seem to now have her in their care. They’re on the roof of the apartment block. I want you to go back there now.”
Willis felt his heart skip. He’d watched with the others as they witnessed the miracle of the young Eastern European child, Brina Fico. She’d developed the virus, was quarantined, yet seemed to have somehow survived it. Although not a medically minded man by any stretch of the imagination, Willis knew what that meant: she was the key to survival. Humanity’s last hope lay within the blood of that innocent little girl.
He wondered how he felt about that.
“I need the child,” Gallagher continued. “The others are not important, but feel free to bring them if the girl won’t come alone.”
“And if they refuse?” Willis asked.
Gallagher looked again to Jackson. “I believe you weren’t around to witness the full extent of what happened in the control room earlier,” he said. “There was a disagreement between Major Jackson and I. The Major is a troubled man, Willis. Haunted by ghosts of the past, ghosts like our old friend Pat Flynn. But that life is gone now. We’re in a new era, and nothing should hold us back from doing what must be done to ensure our survival.” Gallagher replaced the spent needle on the table beside Jackson. “If the two civilians put up any resistance, you must kill them.”
Willis was careful not to let the nervousness show in his voice as he addressed Gallagher: “Sir, permission to fly on my own, unaided by co-pilot Davis.”
“And why would you request such a thing?” Gallagher asked.
“Fuel, sir. We’re dangerously low. Even one man’s weight can make the difference. Especially if I’m to return with all three survivors.”
Gallagher mulled it over for a moment then nodded.
“Of course, Mr Willis,” he said. “I trust you to know what’s best. If you wish to fly alone, then that’s fine with me.” He smiled. “While in command, I would like to give you gentlemen as much autonomy as possible.” He lifted a scalpel, turned his attentions to the Colonel. “Don’t make me regret that,” he added.
“Of course, sir,” Willis said.
His eyes surveyed the lab once more before he left the observation room.
The doctor returned to his work at the table. Jackson’s eyes snapped open, the shamed officer immediately trying to pull free from his restraints. “Ah,” Gallagher smiled. “Just on cue.”
***
He’d been infected.
But Major Connor Jackson was fighting back.
He tried to use his training. Mind over matter.
His body was jerking, his face grimacing as he resisted a virus that’s sole aim was to consume him. To wipe his mind clean and replace the social conditioning that years as an army officer had ingrained in him.
Jackson fought against the virus because the life of a little girl, an innocent little girl who had already suffered enough, depended upon his fight. His eyes were closed, and his dissolving brain fought to hold the face of that little girl and the word INNOCENT in his mind, hoping that even when dead, even when reanimated as a monster, like the mutilated Colonel beside him, he might retain some sort of control.
God help him, he didn’t want to do what the bad doctor needed him to do.
“For the greater good,” Gallagher had said to him when challenged on his plans for the Fico girl. But what good could come from unleashing a monster on a child?
Jackson thought back to the gruesome day when his life had changed forever.
His daughter had been kidnapped by the IRA. Pat Flynn, well known IRA operative, was in his custody at The Chamber. As was Pat’s son, Sean. When Flynn hadn’t talked, Jackson was pushed to the edge, acting outside of his own character, doing something monstrous, something heinous, murdering the Flynn boy in cold blood.
INNOCENCE, Jackson said to himself now as he struggled against the virus. He said it again.
And again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Willis passed the other soldiers in the control room.
Some of the men were working on the radio, surfing the airwaves. Arguing and fighting over connections and channels, every last one of them drunk as skunks.
Idiots, thought Willis as he passed.
The pilot retreated to the complex’s toilets, checking first that the stalls were all empty.
He locked himself in one, retrieving the compact Blackberry from his pocket.
He connected to The Chamber’s own server. It was weird to think that an old relic like The Chamber might have its own server farm. It had been installed years ago, communication deemed vital to The Chamber’s work and, even though the connection wasn’t great, the signal fading in and out, it had meant Willis could maintain contact with old Tom. He reckoned no one else in the complex had the know-how or motivation to spring him. Those fools out there were arguing over a damn radio, for God’s sake. This was as secure a connection as Willis was going to find, yet he kept his comms brief all the same.
He logged into the makeshift user group. He’d set it up some time ago with Chrysler, another one of his contacts, in case of emergencies like this. For a moment, Willis wondered again what had become of Chrysler. He sure could use the other man’s expertise right now.
The pilot’s own user name came up: AGENT 13.
There was only one other user in the group: Uncle Tom.
Tom was a good friend. Trustworthy. Impulsive, but sharp.
Willis typed.
“Come on, Tom,” he said. “Answer me, damn it.”
***
Waringstown, County Down
“
Tom, Tom, Tom,” the bird shouted.
The old man’s eyes popped open.
“What?” he said. “What’s happening?”
He looked to the birdcage.
The parrot was chattering obsessively, acting very strange. It picked at its own wings, fluttering about in the cage like it was drunk.
“Damn bird,” Tom growled. “I should just snap your fucking neck right now!”
He went to the window, looked out.
A group of dead filled the yard. He could hear them hacking up phlegm, gobs hanging from their lips like stringy glue.
“Fucking things!” Tom shouted out the window. He shook his fist.
Some of the dead looked up. A few moved to the door excitedly, beating the wood uselessly with their hands.
The computer started beeping, pulling Tom away from the window. He rushed over, slapping the keys. The screensaver gave way to the new user group’s screen. It looked basic. Not like the chat screen he was used to.
“Come on, come on,” Tom mouthed as he waited for the connection to kick in.
Jesus, it was patchy.
The screen loaded, Tom finding Agent13 waiting for him.
“Yes!” he beamed. “Still in the ring, boyo!”
Tom hadn’t heard from 13 for a few days. He’d begun to fear the worst: that his old pal had succumbed to the flu like so many others. That he was left alone in this godforsaken world, with only his bird and the shuffling dead outside for company.
“Where you been, buddy?” Tom said as he typed. He waited for 13’s reply:
BUSY. DID YOU READ THE NOTES I SENT? Tom scratched his head.
“What notes?” he typed.
MILES GALLAGHER, came the reply.
Tom swore loudly.
“Why are we still talking about this?” he complained. He typed it.
ALL RELEVANT, 13 replied.
“Why?” Tom typed back.
STILL OPERATIONAL. GALLAGHER IN CHARGE NOW.
Tom sighed, looked around the room, sifting through the many books and files that littered the floor, the desk, the bed. There were papers with words circled in red, underlined and punctuated with dramatic exclamation marks.
Tom sifted through the mess, retrieving the printout he was looking for, simply marked ‘Gallagher’.
His eyes were tired.
“Dr Miles Gallagher,” he read. “Decorated field medic. Worked the Gulf War. Particularly skilled in the art of interrogation. Ruthless, brutal, blah blah blah...”
Tom looked back to the screen, typed, “What do you need to know?”
CAN WE TRUST HIM?
Tom laughed.
“Trust him?! He’s a fucking goon! Of course we can’t trust him!” He was literally banging the keys as he typed.
Agent 13’s next reply bowled him over.
WITH GALLAGHER NOW.
“What?!” Tom bellowed at the screen.
He looked around, suddenly spooked.
“You fucking—” Tom rubbed his mouth. “No, don’t speak!” he whispered to himself. “Don’t speak, this fucker’s infiltrated you. Played you like a fiddle.”
He’d been right that 13 had been acting suspiciously last time. It hadn’t just been the demons dancing in his head or the pills running out. It was his fucking gut trying to tell him something!
Tom went to the phone, picked it up. Rubbed his hand across the receiver, searching for bugs. “No,” he said to himself. “They couldn’t have got in here. You would have seen them. Get a grip, for fuck’s sake! It’s all online. All online.”
He went to the computer lead, ready to pull it from the wall, but stopped himself.
13 had written more:
BEEN WORKING UNDERCOVER SINCE I HAD MY EYES OPENED. YOU CAN TRUST ME.
“Fuck!” Tom shouted, his fists clenched and raised, his eyes ready to pop. “What to do, what to do?” he ranted.
“What to do?” chirped the bird hoarsely.
“Fuck up, bird!” Tom yelled.
Another message on screen. It read:
TOM? YOU STILL THERE?
“Yes,” Tom said. “Still here.”
He cried out in frustration. The noise filled the room. He desperately needed to trust 13. He’d no other choice. There was nobody else out there.
NEED TO KNOW YOUR GUT INSTINCT ON GALLAGHER, came 13.
“Okay,” Tom said, resigned to helping. He reached for the paper again. “Gut instinct. What’s my gut instinct?” He scanned the text. It was all in there. “Interrogation, surveillance, covert operations. For God’s sake, man, he’s up to his eyes in shit!” He went to the keyboard. “Can’t trust him,” he said, typing.
OKAY, came 13’s reply.
“Is it? What’s okay about it?” Tom barked. “The whole fucking world’s gone to hell, and you’re sleeping with the goons! There’s nothing okay about that!”
ONE MORE THING, 13 typed.
A media player file attachment appeared on screen. Tom clicked in.
The video started to play. It was footage taken with a phone or digital camera. Tom saw a few goons sitting around what looked like some sort of control room. They were watching a large screen at the front of the room.
On the soldiers’ screen, Tom could make out the image of a small girl running around her bedroom. The windows of the bedroom were covered by metal sheets, as if the room had been sealed from the inside.
SURVIVOR, 13 typed. QUARANTINED BUT RECOVERED FROM THE FLU.
Tom’s mouth dropped. “Oh, lordy,” he said.
But there was more:
I’VE GOT A PLAN, AND I NEED YOU TO HELP ME.
“My help?” Tom muttered. “What the hell can I do?”
He heard a thud from across the room and turned to follow the noise. His eyes fell upon the birdcage, but he couldn’t see the parrot anymore.
Tom stood up from the computer, crossed the room. He leaned in closer to the cage.
Inside, he found the parrot had fallen from its perch. It lay perfectly still on the cage’s floor.
Tom rubbed his mouth. “Oh shit,” he said.
CHAPTER NINE
Ballynarry, County Armagh
The steam from the bath filled the room. It was like mist, and Vicky wondered if she could get lost in it, taken to another world, away from this house and fucked-up countryside, where only death thrived.
She didn’t think she could feel any worse than she did. There was already plenty to feel shit about, after all: the ever-increasing number of bodies outside, the ever-decreasing supply of food and water inside (not that she cared much about that: Vicky couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten). But the mind was a funny old thing. And today, Vicky had woken with a brand new feeling of woe that was totally unexpected.
Guilt.
At first, she’d mistaken it for grief. The two feelings were pretty similar, she realised: both seeming to rise up from the gut, filling her chest like acid. But then her head got in on the action, and Vicky had words and pictures to go with her feelings.
The radiant face of Sinead filled her mind.
When she thought about it, Vicky reckoned that this image was merely a front. That Sinead’s sweet, innocent face represented a lot of people that Vicky had pissed on from great heights throughout the years.
People like her mother, whom Vicky hadn’t talked to in years, still blaming the old woman for the things that bastard husband of hers had inflicted on them both.
People like Colin. God knew, Vicky had been a bitch to Colin even before their whole shambles of a marriage fell apart. She thought that she loved him, and she probably had, as much as a damaged shell like her could. But how real was that love? Was it more a case of her just needing the complete opposite of her father: a man she felt stronger than, a man that she could manipulate?
Vicky closed her eyes, tried to will the guilt away. But it dug its claws in. A heavy, soul-shattering presence that wasn’t for budging.
It possessed her.
The feeling
was unbearable. And the more it consumed her, the more Vicky hated herself.
She already hated everything and everyone around her.
What was there left to live for?
As if to remind her, scratching noises suddenly came from the other side of the bathroom’s single window. The sound was infuriating. Dead fingernails against glass. It dug right through her skin, reached into her stomach and twisted. Vicky started to retch, but there was nothing inside her to come up.
She sobbed in frustration and pain.
As the water continued to rise up around her, its heat surprisingly numb against her flesh, Vicky’s eyes were drawn once more to the razor. It sat innocently on the side of the bath, by the taps. She’d used it already. Each time she’d entered the bathroom, actually. But only to take the edge off, only to draw blood and let some of the pain spill out across her skin.
Once, she’d pressed it against the bigger vein on her wrist, intent on slicing long ways, on making the bleed count—really count—but she’d lost her nerve at the last second, dropping the blade to the floor like it was scalding hot.
This time would be different...
PART FIVE:
THE BLOOD OF THE INNOCENT
CHAPTER ONE
Craigavon, County Armagh
Willis clocked the mass of dead, gathering like doped-out wolves below.
He was flying over Lisburn. The new city seemed completely overrun. There was little chance of any survivors down there at all, the dead filling the streets densely, as if parading.
Willis flew further south, passing Lurgan.
He headed for the No Man’s Land known as Craigavon. Even before the flu, there had been little of interest in Craigavon. Locals called it Roundabout City; the place offered miles and miles of empty road, punctuated by a shopping centre, some leisure facilities and random pockets of run down housing.
The helicopter reached an area within Craigavon known as The Lakes. Here water sports were the order of the day.
A well-trodden path circled the water. The path looked damp, miserable. Still drying from the rain showers that had broken the blue skies earlier. This was a popular spot back in the day. Sunday walkers would come from neighbouring Portadown and Lurgan, often with their dogs in tow.
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