Fever (Flu)

by Wayne Simmons

  Vicky fell backwards, her body jittering on the floor as if she were having a fit.

  Colin fell against the cooker, spent.

  He looked to Ciaran, his mouth fighting to speak. “The... the computer,” he said. And then his head dipped to one side, and his breathing slowed to a standstill, his body sliding to the floor beside Vicky.

  It took Ciaran a long time to pull himself back onto the swivel chair. He tried numerous times; each unsuccessful attempt leaving him sprawled across the floor. Finally, he made it, positioning himself once again in the driver’s seat of his makeshift wheelchair.

  He sat for a minute, catching his breath.

  On the floor, the two corpses lay apart, Vicky’s body still shaking, her bright eyes turned away from Colin.

  The computer, he remembered. Those were Colin’s final words.

  The young soldier pushed himself away from the cooker towards the kitchen door. He used the door as leverage, entering the hallway. He moved back along the hallway, into the study, where the computer was still running.

  He noticed the screen with several messages listed. Some answered, others unanswered. This was a chat room. He would have used them all the time back in school. Colin must have been using it before the shit hit the fan.

  But who the hell was he talking to? Ciaran started by asking that question.

  ***

  Waringstown, County Down

  Tom slammed his bottle to the desk.

  “What do you mean, who am I?! We’ve been talking for ages!”

  He typed it.

  The reply came quickly:

  NOT COLIN. COLIN’ S FRIEND, CIARAN. “What’s going on? Some kind of fucking party?!”

  Tom’s hands were shaking. He was so close. So fucking close.

  He typed:

  WHERE’S COLIN?

  The reply came almost immediately:

  DEAD.

  “Shit!” Tom said. “They’ve been breached.”

  He started to panic. “What to do, what to do, what to do,” he muttered.

  He waited for the familiar mantra to be repeated, but the bird was dead. He knew that.

  “No time,” Tom said. “No fucking time!”

  He returned to the keyboard. Looked like this Ciaran bloke was his only hope.

  He started to type.

  A sound in the corner disturbed him.

  Gingerly, Tom turned back towards the birdcage.

  The bird was moving. Fluttering around the cage, falling, then picking itself up and flying again. Bloody thing looked doped. Its beak opened to speak, but instead of words it released a shrill squawk.

  Tom had never heard it make that sound before.

  “Christ almighty,” he muttered to himself. Now the infection had breached his house.

  He turned back to the computer.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Chamber, County Armagh

  “Go fuck yourself, Gallagher.”

  The doctor smiled.

  “Now, now, Major,” he tutted. “You’re an officer. Where’s your manners.”

  Gallagher reached for the nearby packet of surgical wipes, retrieving one to remove the gob of blood and mucus from his yellow plastic suit. He dumped the wipe into the nearby bin.

  “Now, let’s try that question again. I want to know how you’re feeling right now. As the virus takes control of your body, how does it affect you?”

  “And I told you to go fuck yourself,” Jackson said.

  “Indeed you did, sir. Of course repetition is a key behaviour of the dead. This is promising. You’ll make a fine specimen.”

  “I’m going to rip your heart out.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Gallagher rejoiced. “Come on, Major! Let’s have more of that anger. I’m convinced it will speed up your transformation.”

  Jackson laughed bitterly. “Why me?” he said. “Why not one of those other monkeys out there, drinking themselves to death.”

  “Because I’m not a monster,” Gallagher said. “I’m not going to murder an innocent man.”

  Jackson laughed again, this time harder. The laughing gave way to wheezing, more blood spilling from his lips.

  “We both know exactly what you are, Gallagher,” he spat. “You’re the coldest bastard I’ve ever known. How a man can inflict as much misery as you have and still consider himself human, I’ll never know.”

  The doctor shrugged. “I’m sure our old friend Patrick Flynn could say the very same about you, sir. And yet here you are, pious to the end.”

  He smiled, strolled across to the Colonel’s torso. There was even less of the old man left now, Gallagher having removed the dead man’s lower jaw. He’d then pulled each tooth in the top row, piling them like shillings in the Colonel’s old hat, the same hat they’d drawn from during that farce of a lottery.

  “Why can’t you be like the Colonel?” Gallagher said to Jackson, all the while stroking the dead man’s hair. “Such a gracious host.”

  Gallagher retrieved some lighter fluid from the table, sprinkling it like vinegar over the Colonel’s head, humming as he worked.

  Once done, he turned to Jackson again. “You see, Major, the actual virus is quite a complex beast,” he said. “Can take one man within a matter of hours. Another over the course of several weeks. And once dead, there are differing reports of how long the infection takes to subvert a host, shall we say.

  “Yet on subversion, the risen dead will act quite a primitively. A slave to instinct. Mostly presents a pack mentality, using whatever senses the virus feels moved to leave them.” Gallagher fumbled in his pocket and produced a lighter. “Watch this,” he said, winking at Jackson.

  He sparked the lighter, bringing the flame close to the Colonel’s eyes. The old man seemed excited by it, his eyes widening immediately, following the flame as Gallagher waved it from side to side. Gallagher then lit the old man’s wiry hair, the Colonel screaming as if in delight as both hair and flesh went up.

  “Primitive,” Gallagher said again, noting the Colonel’s excitement as he burned, “drawn to light and fire. Worshipping it, I would suggest, even though it might very well destroy them.”

  Gallagher lifted a nearby mug of coffee and tipped it over the dead officer’s head, putting the flame out.

  He turned again to Jackson. “You’ve all this ahead of you, Major. Aren’t you just the tiniest bit curious as to how it will feel?”

  “You’re sick!” Jackson protested.

  But Gallagher smiled. “On the contrary, sir,” he said. “I feel fit as a fiddle. All this excitement, you see. Warms a man’s heart, no?”

  There was a sudden beeping noise.

  Jackson followed the noise, noticing what looked to be a Blackberry on the table, next to the Colonel. Gallagher moved towards the Blackberry, picking it up. He worked at the phone’s buttons, smiling as he read whatever message had just come through. It struck Jackson as odd that any network would be live at this stage of the game.

  “What’s your thoughts on conspiracy theories, Major?” Gallagher asked. “Seems our man Willis is a fan...”

  There was a knock on the door.

  Gallagher looked to the Major quizzically, as if the infected officer might know who was there.

  “Please excuse me,” he said, sliding the phone into the pocket of his lab coat.

  He went to the door, opened it.

  One of the soldiers stood at the other side.

  “Can I help you, Private?” Gallagher asked, smiling. “Er, there’s a call for you, sir?”

  “A call, you say.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “A call from whom, Private?”

  “Dunno, sir. They asked for you.”

  The Private strained to look past Gallagher towards Jackson and the Colonel.

  The Colonel shrieked, causing the Private to jump. Gallagher left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “Okay, take me to this call,” Gallagher said to the Private.

>   The younger man led Gallagher back through to the control room, where several other soldiers sat poised around the radio they’d been working at. A faint hiss escaped the contraption, one of the men holding its mic.

  He looked up as Gallagher approached.

  “Sir, we’ve been broadcasting a distress call. This ... er... gentleman responded. He claims to be from the government.”

  Gallagher smiled. “How exciting,” he said.

  He pressed the mic, said, “This is Dr Miles Gallagher at your service, acting CO of The Chamber. To whom am I speaking?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Waringstown, County Armagh

  The country held a certain anarchic quality that Lark could appreciate, a grassroots sense of order that appealed to someone who had felt frustrated and confined by rules all of his life. Nature did as it pleased all the time.

  “This is it,” Willis said.

  The car pulled up to another farmhouse. It looked very much like the one they’d left less than an hour ago. It had a small front garden, clumsily fenced, a garden path running to a heavily locked door. Weeds rose up from the cracks in the paved garden path like snakes.

  Several of the dead littered the front yard, their faces turned to look at the car as it ground to a halt. Willis checked his gun, prepared to take the hostiles out swiftly.

  A dark shadow fell upon them.

  Lark looked up to find a flock of birds circling the house, their cries high-pitched and shrill.

  “Just hope he’s okay,” Willis said.

  He reached for the car door, waited.

  “Come on,” Geri said to Brina as she reached for her own door. “Let Mr Willis go first. And stay close to me.”

  Lark’s gaze fell upon the birds again, their flight taking a random dip, swooping close to the car.

  “Hey,” he said, his own door only semi-open, “Maybe we should wait a—”

  Their attack was as fast as it was brutal. The first one was on Willis within seconds, claws digging into his back, beak pecking at his head. Willis went to shield his face, shaking the dead bird off, but more lit upon him, digging into his flesh hungrily.

  Geri pulled Brina close but stood frozen to her spot. “Fuck,” Lark muttered to himself. And then to Geri, “GET BACK IN THE CAR!”

  Still she didn’t move, so he reached to grab her arm, tugging her back. Geri grabbed Brina with her, and Lark pulled them both into the car, then slammed the door behind him.

  One of the birds collided with the glass, piercing it with its beak. It hung there trapped, the bloody thing’s wings shaking like it was possessed. Its eyes were frosted over. It was dead.

  “Don’t look at it!” Lark shouted.

  His own eyes were drawn to Willis outside, the pilot now completely covered by birds, their black feathers like some kind of elaborate cloak. At his feet, the grass ran thick and red with blood. His screams were masked only by the unholy squawks of the birds as they tore into him, shedding his flesh like lumps of meat.

  A smaller flock circled the car.

  They swooped, like the first bird, ramming the glass like tiny kamikazes, falling onto the bonnet and then taking flight to attack again. Spider web cracks were starting to form in the glass all around the survivors.

  They were fucked.

  Lark patted his head.

  “Think!” he said to himself.

  Geri stretched across the back seat, covering the child with her own body.

  The image suddenly reminded Lark of Afghanistan, of that house where his army buddies had thrown a young girl on the floor and had their fun with her. Of later seeing the girl’s mother bent over the body of her daughter. Those bastards had killed that poor girl. Raped her and left her to die, bleeding on the floor of her own home.

  And then Lark was in battle. There was confusion, insurgents thick and heavy on them. But in the smoke and dust and noise, Lark aimed his rifle and fired not at the insurgents, but at three of his own men, giving those rapist cunts as taste of their own medicine.

  Friendly fire, they’d called it.

  He repeated the words now: “Friendly fire...” Something clicked.

  Lark reached his hands across the back seat of the car, finding a petrol can. He shook it to his ear, ensuring there was some fuel in it, then stretched forward, dousing the front seat of the car with the contents of the can, emptying it completely then dropping it into the driver’s seat.

  He found a second can, did the same thing.

  He reached for his lighter, looked to Geri.

  “What the hell are you—” she began.

  “When I say go,” Lark cut in, “I need you to grab the girl and sprint as fast as you can away from the car!”

  “You’re insane!”

  “GO!” Lark cried, flicking the lighter and chucking it into the front seat.

  The whole front of the car erupted into flames, scorching his face.

  Geri grabbed Brina into her arms, pushed through the back car door. She moved swiftly across the yard towards a nearby outhouse.

  Lark struggled from the burning vehicle, aware of the birds flocking around the front bonnet, pecking frantically at the hot windscreen, trying to get to the flames that would no doubt consume them. The few dead hanging around the house joined the frenzy, moving hungrily towards the car, bathing in its flames and then flailing around like possessed men.

  Lark hobbled forward, the pain in his ankle sharper than ever. He was only metres from the car when it went up in an almighty roar, the windows blowing out, raw heat eating into the back of his head as he was thrown to the ground.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Lark rolled over, watching the birds dance in the fire, their shrill cries piercing the still country air. As the flames continued to build, roaring victoriously, the squawk of the birds began to wane.

  Lark pulled himself from the ground, feeling the bite of glass in his neck and back of his head. His eyes stung. He was feeling dizzy, nauseous. His stomach gave, filling his mouth with warm, thick bile. Lark puked it onto the ground.

  God, he felt fucking awful.

  The tattooed man moved towards the charred corpse of Willis. The pilot had been fumbling for his handgun, now curled in his right hand uselessly. Lark prised it from the dead man’s shredded fingers, wiping it onto his t-shirt. The hard plastic of the gun was warm in his hands, but it looked undamaged. Lark dropped the magazine, checked then reinserted it before chambering a round.

  He looked around, then up at the house. At the first storey window he noticed a face poking through the space where a wooden board had fallen away.

  “Hey!” Lark called.

  The face disappeared.

  Lark limped over to the heavy front door, finding it boarded up and locked tight. He banged the wood with his fist, to no avail.

  Lark aimed the handgun at the wood, blew a hole through. He then fired on the exposed door’s lock. Noticed several other bolts. Blew them away too, kicked the door in.

  He entered the house. Coughed, spitting another gob of bile onto the floor of the hallway. “Okay, where are you, ye bastid?”

  The house reeked. Flies hovered like thick smoke in the living room. There was shit everywhere. Bin bags piled high. Spent gas cylinders.

  He could hear something coming from upstairs. More bird sounds.

  Lark readied his gun, clambering up the stairs.

  He found the first bedroom door open, an old man sitting inside by his computer. In the corner was a birdcage, a clearly dead bird squawking and fluttering around inside, as if drunk.

  The old boy turned and looked at Lark. “Where’s Agent13?” he asked.

  “What the fuck are you on about?!”

  “The group!” the old man shouted. “I’ve made contact with Chrysler’s place. They’ve found data, important—” The old man stopped talking, looked Lark up and down. “You’re infected,” he said, but there was no fear or pity in his voice. Rather a sense that the infection would spoil things, ruin thi
ngs for him and whatever bullshit quest he’d signed on for.

  Geri and Brina entered the room, Geri’s arm wrapped protectively around the child.

  “I swear,” Lark said to Geri, pointing to the old man, “I’m going to brain this cunt.”

  “Jesus,” Geri said, “Would you calm yourself down?” She grabbed the handgun from Lark’s grasp, shook her head. “You’ll upset the child.”

  That seemed to stall him. He remembered what had happened the last time Brina got upset.

  Lark stumbled over to the nearby bed and fell down upon it.

  The old man turned to stare at Brina. His eyes widened. “It’s her,” he said, and for a moment Geri thought he was going to reach for the girl.

  Geri fixed the old man with a defiant glance.

  He backed off, returned to the computer screen. “You’re Tom,” Geri said to him.

  But the old man ignored her. He scratched his head, and Geri could have sworn that she saw something fall from his hair. She almost gagged. He was filthy. The string vest he wore looked like it had never been washed.

  She tried again. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Uncle Tom, Willis told us—”

  “Willis?” Tom said, suddenly interested. His eyes fell to Geri’s chest, then back to her eyes. “That was his real name, wasn’t it?”

  “He spoke very highly of you. Said you were a good man, Tom. Very learned.”

  “He’s dead now, isn’t he?” Tom said.

  “Yes,” Geri replied.

  She thought of the birds. Of the dead gathered by the door. She looked out the window. The few remaining cadavers still circled the car, infatuated with the dwindling flames. But how long would that keep them occupied?

  “Tom,” she said, “we need to lock the door up again.”

  “The memos,” Tom said, ignoring her once more. “Chris had memos from the top boys involved on his file. Don’t you know what this means?” He looked to Geri. “The government are up to their necks in this shit.” A line of spittle broke across his beard. “And we can prove it!”