He swallowed.
“Please leave,” he said, finally.
Jeremy considered things, for a second. Then he looked down, and shook his head.
“Pity,” he said simply, and stood.
As he walked passed Sean, the young man felt his eyes upon him. They pushed against him, like something solid, prodding, jabbing, menacing. Sean didn’t return the look.
Jeremy sighed, and left the room.
A few instants later, he heard the front door open.
Then, still standing there, his eye fell upon the monitors.
Two figures, kissing, on Cathy’s doorstep.
One of them was her.
His blood turned cold.
“Wait,” he cried.
Chapter 13
Walscombe
Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t die.
This was Walscombe’s single, thumping thought. Over and over again, like a desperate heartbeat. Like a madman’s prayer.
For the second time that day, he was dragging a body through Atlantis. Although, this time, it wasn’t a corpse (Not yet, anyway, remarked an evil little voice inside him).
Jeff was unconscious, his head dangling limply towards the ground. Trickles of chunky red-yellow vomit spread slowly across the interior of his helmet’s visor. Occasionally, his body would jerk, muscles contracting at random. Walscombe had no idea what that could mean.
They left a fading track behind them, the liquid residue of the hurried chemical shower they took inside the decontamination chamber. Walscombe hoped it would somehow help rid their suits of the whatever-the-hell-it-was that had infected the woman. And now Jeff.
“Hang in there, man. Stay with me,” he said. His concern was sincere (far more sincere, in fact, than he’d ever imagined possible), but the words sounded fake – all meaning sucked out of them from having been repeated too often in countless movies and TV shows. Walscombe had no words of his own to articulate his terror. Terror of witnessing this man’s death, of being left alone, in Atlantis.
Alone, with a psychopath.
Walscombe cursed his hazmat suit, the way he couldn’t rotate his head, to check the surroundings (Check for Don, you mean). He had to twist his torso, while dragging Jeff along as fast as he could. It wasn’t easy work. Step, pant, drag, check. Step, pant, drag, check. Step, pant…
Don was no where to be seen. This, at least, was of some consolation.
They was close, now. Somewhere behind his pain-stricken back, lay his room.
And what happens when you get there? Think you’ll be safe, then, do you? Well, that’s a big pile of bullshit, if you ask me.
Walscombe felt a knot inside his chest.
“Shut up. Please shut up.”
Then came the voice on the PA. It was loud enough, insane enough, to make him shriek.
“INTRUDERS DETECTED,” reverberated Don’s harsh, commanding tone. “Repeat: intruders detected. Kill on sight. Repeat: kill. On. Sight.”
Walscombe almost gave up. The burning desire to simply stop, rest Jeff on the ground, and collapse beside him, was overpowering. Just lie there, and wait for Don to appear and end their miseries. A bullet in the head, then peace, at long last.
He shouted, in frustration. He shouted, and kept dragging his friend’s body across the floors of that hellish place, muscles and tendons and nerves exploding.
And, finally, they were there. Through his door. One last pull, then he did collapse, exhausted. He fell backwards, Jeff’s head landing on his stomach. He stared at the ceiling, panting and cursing and enjoying the relief of finally having got there. Of having a locked door between him and the rest of the world.
“One more thing,” the chilling voice on the PA said. It took a second for Walscombe to realise Don had shifted into a surprisingly accurate Elvis impersonation. “Don’t step on my blue suede shoes. You can do anything that you want to do, but stay off of my fucking blue suede shoes.”
A long pause. Walscombe could still hear Don’s heavy, rabid breathing. Static crackled through the loudspeakers.
“I’m talking to you, Walscombe.”
* * *
Walscombe fumbled with his helmet’s zips and latches, until it finally came off. He threw it across the room, not knowing, not caring, if breathing the air would infect him. He filled his lungs, beads of sweat trickling through his lips.
For a few seconds, he just sat there, incapable of thinking, trying to rid himself of the heat inside the suit.
“Urgh…”
Jeff.
Walscombe bent over, and stared at his pale, sick face.
“Jeff, can you hear me?”
He batted his eyelids, slowly. His pupils were wide, greyish, almost large enough to conceal the irises. The vomit-stained visor gave his skin a nauseating yellowish tint. It must stink, in there, he thought.
Jeff waved a weak gloved hand beside his head. “O… open,” came his muffled voice.
Walscombe nodded, “Sure.” But then hesitated.
Yeah. Right. Take his helmet off and enjoy a nice fat serving of the virus, dude. Inhale it all the way. Brilliant idea, man.
Jeff was staring at him. Waiting. Imploring Walscombe to free him from the stench, the claustrophobic prison of the hazmat suit.
But he couldn’t.
“P–please,” said Jeff. “Too… hot…”
Walscombe leaned a hand on the other man’s head, caressing it gently through the bulky layers of material. He felt tears in his eyes. Not only that, though. He felt cowardice, too.
“Oh Jeff… I… I can’t.”
Jeff stared at him, first failing to understand, then perhaps comprehending. His gaze wandered across the room for a beat, then he looked back up at Walscombe. He nodded, slowly.
Walscombe was sobbing. He cradled Jeff’s head as a mother would do with her child.
“I’m sorry, Jeff. I’m so, so sorry.”
* * *
Time passed.
The sort of time when minutes tick by, without you having the means nor the interest to count them. An inconsistent flow of bodily positions, thoughts and breaths, like stills torn randomly out of a photo album.
Jeff was whispering something. His voice was low – hardly a voice at all. Walscombe realised that he’d somehow managed to doze off.
He cleared his throat. “What is it, Jeff?”
“… water… ”
Walscombe felt the muscles in his stomach contract. Was Jeff asking him to remove the helmet again? This time, it would have been too difficult to deny him that simple gesture. It might have killed him, Walscome, yes, but what was left of his life, anyway? A few good hours of chess with Ivan, maybe, before Don killed him. Or some complicated, and likely fruitless, plan of attempting to kill Don himself. Was this a life worth living? Was it, really?
“… in my room…” Jeff said.
“What?.
Behind the visor, Walscombe saw him grimace. The poor man was in pain.
“… a plant. In my room.”
“A plant? Like in a vase?”
Jeff nodded. Tried to. “Please water it.”
And that was it. Screw it, thought Walscombe, as he slid his fingers beneath the exterior latches of the hazmat helmet. This was too much – a man, a good man, was lying there, dying before him. And he, the coward, wouldn’t even concede him a last few instants of fresh air on his skin. All for the sake of escaping an illness that would, worst case scenario, free him from Atlantis and the horrifying monstrosity the world had become.
And Jeff, so quiet, so discreet, had lain there without a complaint or a whimper, allowing only his concern for some silly plant to break his dignified silence.
“Hang on, Jeff. Just one more second,” Walscombe said, not noticing the tears, his tears, dripping upon the filthy visor.
“I’m getting you out of there, Jeff,” Walscombe said, peering down, through this watery veil that just wasn’t there a minute ago, at those eyes, that were looking at him
, now. Yes, looking straight at him. And he stopped.
He cupped his hands over his own face, this coward’s face, and cried.
Because Jeff’s eyes were looking, but no longer seeing.
Chapter 14
The Council Meeting
Paul repressed the temptation to cross himself, but only just.
He was walking towards the makeshift podium, inside the school gym that had now become the venue for Bately Council’s weekly public sessions. These meetings were poorly attended, most days. But not today, thought Paul, as he eyed row upon row of attendees. There was also an unprecedented gathering of people standing outside, and peering in through the windows. Jeremy had certainly livened the locals’ interest in politics, if nothing else.
Some smiled and bobbed their heads at Paul, as he walked towards the large meeting table that was being set up at the far end of the room. But most of them were nervous smiles, painted across a crumbling façade of composure. They’re worried… they sense things in Bately might be about to change.
He couldn’t spot Jeremy. At first, Paul thought – hoped – the elderly, self-appointed healer had perhaps changed his mind, decided to desert the meeting. Maybe his intention had just been to stir up a bit of commotion, in town, with his story about a cure. A humourless, yet ultimately harmless, prank.
But there he was, in a corner of the room, chatting warmly with a few of the local Afflicted. Luke too was among them, noticed Paul, as he neared them, on the way to his seat.
“Good morning, Father,” said Luke, with a wide, innocent smile. Paul bowed his head, in response. He has no idea how delicate this situation is.
There was a girl, standing next to Luke. Paul had never seen her before. She was holding his hand, and looked at the priest with little interest, and more than a sprinkle of arrogance. The Affliction had not yet entirely ravaged her beauty, but was well on the way.
Her hair… it’s partly shaven, in the ’Wraith Pack style. Did Luke invite a member of the Pack to Bately? It wasn’t expressly forbidden to do so, but it was frowned upon. And rare, in any case – the Afflicted that had joined its ranks were generally hostile to Bately and its inhabitants.
The Pack had targeted Bately, in the past, but a series of clashes with the Guard had convinced them to focus their attention elsewhere. The town was well defended, and few thought of the Pack as a genuine threat any more (though most had preferred to ignore the unsettling rumours about its numbers exploding, in recent months, as more and more Afflicted were shunned and driven out of towns across the region).
The fact that a member of the Pack were comfortable showing her face in Bately, so publicly, was not a good sign.
Paul walked past, nodding politely to Jeremy, who flashed a smile in return. A smile accompanied by cold, hostile eyes.
His seat was the usual one, slightly to the right of the table, facing the public. Next to him, sat Cathy on one side, and, on the other, Ms. Brand, the tea-brewing, motherly and rather xenophobic member of the Council (her role within it had never been completely clear to him). Then came Bill Hughes, former military officer and commander of the Guard; Frank Bailey, the bubbly, optimistic farmer who oversaw the local food production. At the far end, just before the seat that had been reserved for Jeremy, sat Sean, hood raised and hands sunk deep into his pockets. Awkward as usual. Or maybe more than usual, considered Paul, studying him.
Although it was likely that every single member of the Council was somewhat nervous, today. He sure was.
Jeremy walked calmly over to his seat. The chatter died down.
Paul looked at Cathy, his own concern mirrored in her face.
Here goes.
That was when the armed men marched in.
* * *
It was the Guard.
They paced along the walls of the meeting hall, until they came to a halt with a loud, single beat of their boots against the floor.
What the hell is going on? thought Cathy. She realised everyone else was wondering the same thing.
The Guard members stood there, eyes on the public. They weren’t exactly threatening, but she could tell most of the attendees felt intimidated. Especially the Afflicted.
Bill Hughes cleared his voice. “Friends, as head of Bately’s Guard, I saw fit for our brave men to come and take part in our meeting, today. Please, ignore them. They are simply here to ensure everyone’s safety.”
Cathy was flabbergasted. Pretty bloody difficult to ignore them, Bill.
Paul leaned towards her. “Did you know?” he whispered.
“No, no. Of course not. Why would he do this?”
Paul sighed. “His intentions are good, I’m sure… but this certainly is a PR disaster.” He discreetly raised an eyebrow towards the audience. Cathy saw frowning faces and worried whispers everywhere. The healthy locals looked anxious. The Afflicted looked furious. This is bad, she thought, while trying to appear calm and composed, like nothing was out of the ordinary. For a second, her eyes met Moore’s. He was sitting in the front row. He smiled at her, although he too looked concerned.
Don’t get distracted, Cathy told herself. Focus on this mess, now.
“Oh,” Jeremy muttered simply, from his end of the table. He feigned concern Cathy doubted he had at all. She was pretty sure he was cool as a cucumber. These fascists are trying to frighten me into silence, his expression shouted out to the audience.
This man has turned passive-aggressiveness into a form of art, she thought.
“As you all know,” continued Bill, “Mr…” He hesitated, and turned towards the far end of the table.
“Jeremy. Just Jeremy,” came the affable reply. “Although, most people I know call me ’the Healer’.”
Bill tried hard to conceal his hostility. Didn’t quite succeed. “Jeremy,” he continued, clearly unhappy with the other option, “says he can provide a… cure, for the local sufferers of the Affliction.”
A few cheers rose from the crowd. Bill ignored them.
“We are here today to discuss this, with him, and with the other members of our Council.”
“And with us!” called a voice. Cathy saw it was a young, sick man from Portugal. Rodrigo or something. He’d arrived a few weeks ago, and was having a hard time integrating.
“Of course,” Bill muttered. “Yes, we’re going to discuss the issue with everyone here. Of course.” He sat down. Some clapped, most of them part of the healthy ’faction’, noticed Cathy.
She felt it was her responsibility to get up and speak. Try and set the tone for the discussion, one that had science at its heart, rather than emotion. Cathy rose from her seat. But Jeremy was already standing, and somehow managed to speak first.
“Friends,” he said, and walked calmly to the front of the table, closer to the audience. “Before we begin, I’d like to say I’m very grateful for the welcome I have received, here in Bately.”
Paul turned to Cathy. She rolled her eyes.
“My arrival did cause a bit of upheaval, I’m sure, with our unplanned gathering, yesterday. But, despite that, my stay has been comfortable and enjoyable, so far. For this, I thank you all.”
His eyes wandered towards the armed men standing at attention, along the walls. “And, although I truly believe their presence today is absolutely unnecessary, I’d like to thank the members of your Guard for providing their assistance.”
Mild clapping from the audience.
“We are here,” he continued, “for a shared, peaceful discussion. Although my hope is there will be no need to discuss, when you all consider the extraordinary benefits of my offer.”
Everyone’s eyes were focussed on Jeremy. Cathy was fiddling with her hair, nervously. During the public sessions, Council members tended to maintain their seats, at the table. Sometimes, they stood, without leaving their place, so they could be seen, like Bill had done, earlier. Now, Jeremy was there, standing close to the people of Bately, almost among them. It was a basic tactic, but it seemed to be doing the trick.
Cathy shifted around uneasily, in her chair. Suddenly, we’re the Establishment, she thought. Sitting here at a distance, while he’s a man of the people.
“Please get to it, sir,” said Bill.
Cathy sighed. And that’s exactly what the Establishment would say…
Jeremy gave a quick, deferential bow towards the Council members. “Absolutely.” Then, turning towards the public once again: “People of Bately, this is all very formal, and I’m not exactly comfortable in these kinds of settings….
Although he had his back towards her, Cathy could clearly picture his humble, endearing smile as he said those words.
“But,” he reprised, “I’ll try and get to the point… until a few months ago, I was sick. Very sick. It didn’t take long for me to understand what illness had struck me. It was the same mysterious sickness that had decimated my friends and family, while condemning many others to a life of pain and misery.” He shook his head, as if the memory were too much to bear. “It soon became clear that I had joined the ranks of the Afflicted. The meteorwraiths, as some were calling us.” He took another step forward, towards a thirty-something year old man Cathy had sometimes administered medicines to. He too was from what-was-Europe, Holland perhaps, and the Affliction had not been generous to him.
Jeremy rested a hand on his shoulder. “This suffering is something you simply can’t understand, if you’ve not been through it.” The words oozed compassion and sympathy. The Dutch man nodded, tears gathering in his eyes. The room was silent. “This, my friends, is a suffering beyond compare. But there’s more to this illness. It mutilates our bodies and our confidence. It turns us into outcasts.”
With slow, measured steps, Jeremy began walking through the central aisle that separated the plastic chairs the audience were sitting on. He ignored the healthy, but handed out his compassionate gaze to all the sick he walked past. “The Afflicted, my friends, are shunned. They are persecuted. Killed, even. This is what is happening in many, many places.” Another dense pause. “As I said yesterday, not everyone is as fortunate as you, my fellow Afflicted. Most of us do not end up in places like Bately,” and here, again, Jeremy stopped. A calculated pause, it seemed to Cathy. She could have sworn it was because he could see what was coming next. And it did: someone (maybe the Portuguese man from earlier, though she could not be sure) shouted: “It’s not like it’s great here, either!”
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