Irish End Games, Books 4-5-6

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  They came to a row of doors and the girl used a key to open the first one and ushered him inside. He stepped into a small living room. The effects of his disappointment still filtered through him like a vibrating pain. In the time it took him to see Gavin and realize he’d finally found him, he’d already mentally gone through all the steps of getting him away and onto a boat—all the way to the moment when he presented him to their parents back at the compound with all the resultant joy and unbearable happiness. He’d gone all the way there and now he was left emptyhanded, right where he started.

  Hungry. Alone. No way home. No idea where to find Gavin.

  “You’re a Yank, right?” the girl asked, ripping off her mask and revealing a beautiful smile that matched her eyes. Her hair was brown. Not dark and not blonde. “I’m Gilly.”

  John felt the exhaustion of his disappointment on his shoulders like a fifty-pound weight. He didn’t trust himself to speak without breaking down. He’d been so close. So close.

  “I bet you’re sick of us Brits offering you tea all the time but I swear you look like you could use it. Sit down. When you leave I’ll give you a mask. It might not keep the sickness at bay—nobody really knows how it’s transmitted—but it can’t hurt. That’s what my father says anyway.” Gilly went to the kitchenette and plugged a hotplate into a small generator. John’s eyes widened.

  “Shhh,” Gilly grinned. “Don’t tell the rabble that we have electricity. Even sick, I imagine they’d riot. Sorry we don’t have sugar but there’s a little milk.”

  John sat down and looked around the room. It appeared to have been a servants quarters at one time. The furniture was old—a divan, two armchairs and a small dining table with three chairs around it. There were cigarette burns in the table. Gilly handed him his tea and sat across from him.

  “So this is the part where you tell me how an American is here in the middle of all this.”

  John set his tea down and shook his head as if to clear it. “Who are you?” he asked. “Do you live here?”

  She laughed. “I guess it sounds crackers. But my father is the head doc here. We live in Oxford. They sent him down here about two weeks ago when things started to get bad. At first we just came because Dad is trying to figure out a way to stop it, you know?”

  “He’s a…? John didn’t want to appear stupid in front of her but he couldn’t find the word he was searching for either.

  “Immunologist,” Gilly said. “Well, he calls himself a lab rat but same thing.”

  John waved to the clinic above them. “Is he finding a cure?”

  Gilly wrinkled up her nose. “He’s trying anyway. It’s all pretty desperate.” She waved in the direction of the long line of people outside. “Dad says right now seventy percent will die and thirty will live through it.”

  “But he doesn’t know why?”

  “That’s what he’s trying to figure out. Okay, your turn. Pretend like I’m the British TMZ.” She held an imaginary microphone to John’s face. “Tell us, John. What brings you to post-apocalyptic England in the middle of a plague?”

  John laughed in spite of himself. In fact, he laughed so hard and so long, that he thought he might fall off the couch. When she put it that way, the truth sounded ludicrous. He wiped his eyes.

  “I’m in Ireland because my mother fell in love with an Irishman and we didn’t want to live apart. And I’m in the middle of a plague in the United Kingdom because my stepbrother, Gavin, is missing and I’m trying to find him.”

  Gilly’s eyes were large and she sat back in her chair and watched him.

  “What makes you think he’s in Fishguard?”

  “He left me a note telling me he was heading here.”

  “But you don’t know if he made it. He might have changed his mind.”

  John nodded. He had to admit that was true.

  “You must care for him a lot.”

  “I lost my dad during the second year after the bomb dropped. So I’m really invested in not losing anybody else I love.”

  Gilly stared at him, no longer smiling. “I love how Americans talk,” she said softly as if speaking to herself. “Not just the accent but the words you use are so strange. I lost my mother last year. To this bloody disease.” Her eyes filled with tears and she picked up her tea and sipped it noisily.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So I know exactly what you mean about not wanting to lose anybody else.”

  “Is it just you and your dad?”

  She nodded. “But you’ve got a stepbrother and a new stepdad, too? What’s he like? Is he evil?”

  John laughed. “No, he’s awesome. I mean he’s the total opposite of my dad but still great in his own way. He makes my mom happy. So that’s cool.”

  “Will you stay for supper?”

  “I would kiss the ground you walk on and all your ancestors for giving me supper.”

  “A simple yes would do,” Gilly said, laughing. “How’ve you been managing up to now?”

  “Hand to mouth.”

  “Not any more,” she said firmly. “I’ll do what I can to help you, John. How’s that?”

  “That would be amazing, Gilly. Thank you.”

  They talked for another hour before Gilly jumped up to make dinner. John knew he’d feel better if he checked in with Mr. Walker but he agreed to hold off until after they’d eaten. Gilly was expecting her father any minute and he could tell she was excited about the two of them meeting.

  John evaluated his position. He still didn’t know where Gavin was but he’d made a friend and if her father didn’t hate him, maybe someone who might help him find Gavin and get back to Ireland. His thoughts flashed back to Mr. Walker and how sad he must be today. John’s stomach clenched at the thought of that kind of grief. And now Mr. Walker was sick too. He glanced at Gilly as she brought pans out of the cupboard and began chopping vegetables. She looked to be about his age, maybe a little older. It was hard to tell. Her accent was weird, too. Definitely not Irish.

  He stood up and leaned in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “So are you English?”

  She laughed. “No way! I’m a Scot.”

  “But you live in England?”

  “Because Dad has a lab in Oxford. He’s usually a researcher. It was a real coup for the government to have him help out like this. Actually, it was Uncle Dan’s doing.” Gilly put the vegetables on the stove to boil and wiped her hands. “Uncle Dan is in parliament in London. A really big muckey-muck.”

  “And is he Scottish, too?”

  “Of course.”

  At that moment, the door behind John opened and a man in a white lab coat walked into the room. He was of average height with a pleasant face. He had a long straight nose and clear blue eyes like Gilly. He shut the door behind him.

  “Gilly?”

  “In here, Dad!” Gilly greeted her father and then turned to introduce John. “We have a guest for dinner.”

  “I see we do. Finlay Heaton,” he said, extending his hand, his eyes taking in every aspect of John as he stood there.

  “John Woodson.”

  Dr. Heaton’s eyebrows shot up. “American?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “How was it today, Dad?” Gilly said, holding her hands out for her father’s lab coat. It occurred to John that it should probably be in some kind of sanitation containment but Gilly just took it and hung it up on a peg in the hall.

  “No worries, lad,” Heaton said. “I left my lab smock to be disinfected. Can I offer you a drink?”

  John shook his head. “No sir. Gilly gave me tea.”

  Heaton moved into the kitchen and Gilly gestured for John to sit down. She picked up the tea tray and left the room as Heaton returned with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

  “Where are your parents, lad?”

  “My father was killed,” John said, keeping his voice impassive. “And my mother is in Ireland. I’m here looking for my stepbrother.”

  “Bad timing, that. The Gard
a shot two more local craft just today trying to cross the channel.”

  Gilly returned with a new cup of tea for John. “So they’re serious, then,” she said.

  “Oh, aye. Where are you staying in Fishguard, John?”

  “Well, it sort of changes day to day, honestly.”

  “Dad, can he stay with us? He’s sleeping in ditches.”

  “That’s all right, sir. I’m used to it.”

  Heaton frowned and drank down the rest of his drink. “Let’s eat first, shall we?”

  It wasn’t a feast but it tasted like it to John. His mom used to tease him that, like most teenage boys, he was a bottomless pit when it came to food. He eagerly accepted seconds and thirds when Gilly offered them. The dinner was a revelation in other ways too. Finlay Heaton was attempting to discover the cause of the disease so that he could create possible remedies—something that vastly excited John. He also learned that the Irish Garda not only shot at anyone within a mile of Ireland’s coast, but some said you were at risk at any place on the water between Wales and Ireland.

  It turned out Dr. Heaton wasn’t the head doctor at the clinic. As a researcher, his clinician days were behind him. He helped where he could but that wasn’t why he was in Fishguard.

  “The World Health Organization thinks it’s water-borne,” Dr. Heaton said.

  “So it’s bacterial?” John asked.

  “Aren’t you a clever lad!”

  John blushed. “Not really. We came to Ireland when I was ten and the only real schooling I’ve had since then is the encyclopedia set my mom and I brought back last year.”

  “Are the Irish not providing basic infrastructure?”

  “I don’t really know,” John admitted. “We stay pretty isolated from the rest of Ireland in our compound. And there’s no one there, really, to teach me.”

  “Bright lad like you,” Heaton said, frowning. “That is a crime against nature. Not even Dublin? Not Trinity?”

  “I really don’t know.” John looked at Gilly. “What are you doing for school? Was that not interrupted over here?”

  “Not for long enough,” Gilly said, grinning at her father. “Most of the UK got a rudimentary grid built back within eighteen months of the EMP going off so the main cities have electricity and cars again.”

  “But not here.”

  “Nay,” Heaton said, looking out the window. It was already dark. “Not in Wales nor Scotland either.”

  “Why is the clinic in a hotel? Wasn’t there a hospital in Fishguard?”

  “Oh, aye,” Heaton said, shrugging. “But it was picked clean within weeks of the bomb. Besides, it’s too far out of town. With no cars, nobody could get there. It’s the British government that set this clinic up and staffed it. Actually Fishguard is one of our larger sites. Or at least it was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Heaton sighed. “Well, they’re moving most of the operation to a larger hub. Makes sense of course. But tell that to the poor sods around here needing treatment.”

  “You’ll just leave?” John asked.

  “Well, Gilly and I were leaving anyway. I’ve seen what I came to see. The rest needs to happen in a laboratory.”

  John was relieved when Gilly refused his help to clean up after the meal. He really wanted to check on Mr. Walker. As he gathered up his pack, Dr. Heaton clapped him on the back.

  “We’d be glad to have you stay with us, John. We have the room. You’re welcome to leave your pack here.”

  John hesitated. While he was delighted to have a place to stay for the night, he didn’t feel good about walking back to Lower Fishguard without his gun. Nor did he particularly want to show Heaton that he had it.

  “Is something amiss, lad?”

  John heard the sounds of Gilly washing up and humming in the kitchen. Perhaps Heaton would understand. While things hadn’t been as bad in England as they had in Ireland, he must have heard the media reports.

  “I travel with a handgun. And I hope that doesn’t make you think twice about having me stay with you.”

  Heaton paused and looked at the pack in John’s hands.

  “When you’re out at night, where do you carry it?”

  John opened his pack and pulled out the semiautomatic. He checked the cartridge and then tucked it into his back waistband.

  “Jolly good. You go and come back safe, eh? I’m only sorry we can’t invite the old man too but until I know the parameters of the contagion factor—”

  “That’s all right, sir. I won’t be more than an hour, there and back.”

  “Cheers. I’ll have a word with the door security to keep an eye out for you so you don’t get locked out.”

  “Is he leaving?” Gilly stood in the kitchen wiping her hands on a hand towel. The gesture reminded John of his mother and he felt a sudden longing to see her.

  “Just,” her father said as he opened the door for John.

  “Thank you again for everything. For dinner and just everything.”

  “Tut!” Heaton said. “It was our pleasure. Wasn’t it, darling? Off you go now.”

  John grinned at Gilly and then trotted down the long hall. The security detail included two men sitting on stools by the front door. From the smell of alcohol wafting in the foyer, they weren’t as alert as they could be, but they nodded to him as he passed and slipped out the door.

  What unbelievable luck! A place to stay while he sorted out which way Gavin went…if he went anywhere. The nagging thought that Gavin had never made it to Fishguard had flitted in and out of his brain ever since the man in the clinic turned out not to be him. John would continue to look and ask around but one way or the other he was going to have to accept the possibility that coming over here might have been a major mistake.

  He thought back to how far from the coast it was that he’d found Gavin’s note. What if Gav was planning on coming to Fishguard but then something happened and he changed his mind? Knowing Gav, he could be half way to Limerick before he remembered he hadn’t left any further clues for poor, stupid John who was probably on his way to Fishguard by now.

  As soon as John started down this way of thinking, every thought or strategy he came up with began with the default assumption that Gavin was not in Fishguard after all and had never been in Fishguard.

  There was no moon out when John hurried back over the hill that separated Lower Fishguard from the newer town. It was still early for the stars to reflect much light. He could smell the sea to his right even if it he couldn’t see it. It gave him a chill to think of it there, massive, moving, invisible.

  He figured if the neighbors saw poor Mrs. Walker’s body out this morning, they’d have no reason to bother the old man—unless they wanted vengeance on how their mate, the guy with the cricket bat, ended up in the same body bag. The two who ran away didn’t look like the types who’d come back for more but John wasn’t willing to trust his intuition.

  An image of Gilly popped unbidden into his head and he grinned.

  Yeah, she was cute. And while his experience with the opposite sex was extremely limited, like zero, even he could tell she liked him, too. Just thinking of her gave him a funny feeling in his stomach. And unlike all the other funny feelings he’d experienced in the past few years, this one didn’t make him want to throw up in the bushes.

  John waited until the house was in sight and then he stepped into the shadows to wait and watch. The house looked dark, as it had last night and he felt a thin tremor of guilt for the terrible day the old fellow must have spent: dumped his beloved wife out on the curb for body pickup and then returned to a house with the electricity permanently off, there to sit and reflect on his own impending mortality. Bill Walker had surely just endured the worst day of his life.

  To be on the safe side, John pulled his gun out and approached the house in a crouch. If someone was lying in wait on the porch or in the thick weeds by the front walk, he’d be ready for them. He slowed his approach and silently crept up the steps to the porch turnin
g so that the door was at his back. He surveyed the front yard. Nothing. Without turning around, he tapped on the door behind him. There was no answer.

  Crap shit. With his eyes still on the street in front of the house, John felt for the doorknob. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open and backed into the house, turning around only once he was inside to look out a front window. There was still no movement on the street.

  “Mr. Walker?” he called. The house was dark and totally quiet. John stood, undecided. The silence was unnerving and his mind raced to fill in the answers.

  The old guy’s dead in the back bedroom. Don’t go in there.

  He’s being held at knifepoint by somebody in the back room just waiting for me to wander down the hall to investigate. Don’t go there.

  John’s heart seemed to be pounding in his ears.

  Does he need help? Is he back there…needing help? John’s shoulders sagged and for a moment he was tempted to sit on the couch. What difference did any of this make any more? Why had he even bothered coming back? There was nothing he could do for the old guy. Nothing. And he wasn’t even going to stay the night. This was all so stupid.

  Except John had promised he’d be back.

  He straightened his shoulders and took a long steadying breath. He’d promised Mr. Walker that he’d return. Good or bad, that’s what that was. Holding his gun out in front of him and promising himself he wouldn’t accidentally shoot the old guy, John edged his way down the hall. The first bedroom door was partially open and John edged it all the way with his foot. Just junk and some old broken furniture. Probably the stuff Mr. Walker had been using to fuel the cook stove. John turned to the second and last bedroom down the hall.

  Quit freaking yourself out. His hands felt slick on the gun which all of a sudden was very heavy. He shifted it to his left hand and wiped his right hand on his jeans before taking it back up with both hands. This bedroom door was open too. John stepped inside pointing his gun first left then straight and then right, just like he’d seen on a hundred cop shows when he lived in a world with Netflix and a mildly clueless mother.