He was still staring out of the car window when they finally pulled off the motorway, moving towards the Mahon Road. The Army camp was situated just outside of Portadown, one of the larger towns south of Lough Neagh. It was a place well known for its problems, torn apart by violence between Northern Ireland's two largest communities over the years of the so-called Troubles. Jackson recalled days gone by taking this same journey, as the car turned up the Mahon Road, towards the relative countryside calm of a post-apocalyptic hell. He could make out the gates of the heavily secured Army camp, seemingly unchanged since his day.
Apart from being surrounded by dead bodies, ten deep.
The doors opened, more yellow suits rushing out, these men also having abandoned oxygen, but seemingly more organised, and armed with automatic rifles. Over the car's engines, Jackson could hear the familiar ra- ta-ta of the gunfire as the men moved to clear the area. Several heads popped like corks in the hale of fire, the cold flesh and bone exploding, each body falling to the ground like sacks of spuds. The car suddenly squealed, Jackson's driver cutting through the thinned herd of dead, mercilessly. Several bodies hit the car as he drove, the collisions surprisingly light against the vehicle, as if the dead were literally filled with air. But Jackson felt scared. He felt tired and sad and scared, until the yellow suited soldiers moved back inside, and the gates were closed.
He was hurried out of the car and through the main complex. One of the men moving him seemed immediately more aggressive than the others, his suit stained with blood, as if he had been wrestling with the poor bastards outside, then scalping them like some Apache from one of the old Westerns. Jackson recognised him, even from his swagger. His name was Dr Miles Gallagher, and by the looks of things, he was still a man not afraid to get his hands dirty. He welcomed Jackson warmly as they walked through the base. Jackson hadn't laid eyes on him for years, and that was a good thing.
They moved through the more obvious parts of the base, travelling to an underground section that Jackson was all too familiar with. Eventually, he was out of his civvies and back in standard uniform, wearing an officer's shirt and trousers (both at least one size too big). He tightened the loop of his belt as he was led, gently, into a musty room littered with old files, beer bottles and cans of half-eaten food. The smell was atrocious, even compared to outside. A couple of men lay like dogs in the corner on worn, padded sleeping bags. Gallagher looked appalled when he saw them.
"Get off the ground," the doctor said sternly, shocking the two privates out of their bags and onto their feet. "There's an officer on parade." They stood to attention as Jackson was introduced to them, hands raised in salute.
"At ease," Jackson said, surveying them with little more than pity.
Gallagher looked at him calmly. He was just as Jackson had remembered him. Cold, unemotional, polite. Weirdly unaffected. "I'll bring you to the colonel, sir," he said, quietly. "He's not very well, you understand "
"I was led to believe he had picked up the flu," Jackson said, a little nervously. "Is it er safe to visit him?"
"We have him under quarantine, sir," Gallagher said, again quietly. "We can still communicate with him, without any risk. Of course, the quarantine is just a measure to make the men feel better, really," he said, smiling as if amused. "That's all it really is. In reality, there's no way to avoid the virus, at this stage of the game. It's all around us, all over us, all through us." His manner was quite clinical as he spoke, regardless of the seriousness of his words. But that was the nature of Dr Miles Gallagher, the paradox of the man. He had started out as a medic in the Army, soon spotted in the Gulf War for his more eccentric interest in the art of interrogation, in the ways of abusing a man, ever so acutely, without actually leaving any physical evidence of such. It was a radical use of medical training, but Dr Gallagher became an asset to the Army because of it. Eventually he was moved to Northern Ireland, to the project which Jackson had also been assigned to - a covert operation known, simply, as The Chamber. Gallagher had been one of the most vicious bastards Jackson had ever known, back in the day. After the embarrassment of internment, the British were pushing for results, while demanding discretion. He was asked to be brutal, yet subtle - all at once. Dr Gallagher was certainly brutal, but he was also one of the most polite men Jackson had ever known, despite his merciless way of 'doing business'. Jackson wondered if the good doctor had mellowed any through the years, as the focus on interrogation faded and less aggressive duties resumed. He certainly hadn't become any less formidable looking, Jackson could see, still retaining his tall, lean and frankly creepy looking exterior.
They moved through to another corridor, equally as rundown and chaotic looking as the room they had just left. The Chamber was clearly only hanging onto operations by a very thin thread, the apathy of post-apocalyptic depression affecting the men and women here almost as much as it had affected those at Aldergrove. Jackson wondered if the colonel's failing health had been the final nail in the coffin for the survivors here, a stark realisation that even they could be infected, despite the base's notoriously stringent protocols and high security.
Finally, they reached a sealed door, Gallagher removing a key from his pocket and inserting it into the keyhole. He unlocked the door and glided it open, slowly, as if worried about disturbing someone inside. Jackson was shown in first, Gallagher closing the door behind him and locking it equally as carefully as he had opened it. Looking around, Jackson remembered the room from days gone by. It was an observation room. It looked out onto the interrogation rooms, three in total. Glass covered each side wall, as well as the front wall of the room, allowing the occupants to observe any of the three interrogations. But it was to the front wall that Jackson's eyes were drawn, noticing the unmistakable form of a very sick man sitting, regally, at a table.
"I'm sure you remember how to communicate to the room, sir," Gallagher said in a matter-of-fact way. Jackson walked to the microphone at the control panel. It hadn't changed a bit since he was last here. Still as minimalist looking as before, featuring the mic and huge red button. A small dial allowed the sound control to be adjusted. A nearby chair, also familiar from days gone by, beckoned Jackson. He sat down, facing the one-way window, knowing, from experience, that the colonel would only be seeing his own reflection when looking at the glass. Yet, his cold, hard stare seemed to be burrowing through Jackson's own eyes, as if he somehow could see beyond the mirror. As if, in the ongoing transfiguration from life to death, the colonel had achieved some sort of enhanced vision, a sixth sense that allowed him to see everything and everyone.
Jackson turned to look at Gallagher, who was standing by the door, facing the colonel as if on parade. "He's already turned," he said, without pressing the red button.
"Not quite, sir," Gallagher corrected. "He's in the later stages of his illness, of course, but still able to talk. I've been just with him, before we got the call from the gate advising of your approach." Gallagher pointed again to the mic, as if Jackson had forgotten it was there. "Sir, if you please " he said, as polite as ever.
Jackson looked back at the colonel, still drawn to his eyes. He hadn't noticed them blink since he had entered the room, as if the colonel was in some kind of trance. His hands clung to an old, bloodstained towel, now disused, as the effects of the flu were in freefall. Bloody mucus seeped from his mouth and nose, unchecked. He gurgled, as if choking. He spat on the ground beside him, clearing his throat. Jackson's hand reached for the red button, noticing how it lit up as he pressed it. The colonel didn't react, not seeming to hear the fuzz of the speakers kicking in.
"You may wish to turn the volume up a little louder, sir," Gallagher whispered. "The colonel's hearing is failing, you see."
"Of course," said Jackson, as he turned the dial, noticing the colonel suddenly looking around the room, as he heard his words.
"Hallo?" the colonel said, "Is that you, Gallagher?"
"No, sir " Jackson said. "My name's Major Connor Jackson. I've been sent to er
"
"Replace me," the colonel said, calmly. "It was me who sent for you, sir. Welcome to the Chamber."
"Thank you, sir," Jackson replied.
"Of course," the colonel said, picking up a clipboard from the mess littering the table in front of him, "I'm led to believe this isn't your first time at The Chamber. Bit of an old pro, you are. Duties alongside Dr Gallagher in the early nineties, it seems. Capture and interrogation of prolific IRA operatives those were your specialities, weren't they?"
"Yes, sir," Jackson said. He reckoned that the clipboard contained excerpts from his personnel file. He knew what was in there, and felt a little uncomfortable at it being perused so liberally by the colonel, a man whom he had never met, in all his years of service. Those dark days seemed irrelevant to him, now. As if it were a different Connor Jackson detailed in that file. As if it had all just been a mix-up.
"Yes, sir, indeed " the colonel repeated, as if he were a headmaster chastising Jackson. Jackson was a bit taken back by that, but said nothing. "However, seems you weren't always best pleased at the kinds of practices which went on around here," the colonel continued. "Retired from the Army after a certain incident involving -"
"Clearly, sir," Jackson said, interrupting the colonel and struggling to hold his cool, "there are things which a man must do in a war situation which are questionable." This was a dying man, he reminded himself. This wasn't the time or place for debating the rules of engagement. "I find I'm much more principled now, though," he said, feeling the stab of bitter memories from yesteryear. "What happened before -"
"This is no time for principles," the colonel said, cutting over Jackson. "This is a time for doing what needs to be done, in whatever manner the situation requires. This virus, this fucking flu virus, needs to be contained," he said, stressing the word flu, as if marvelling at how something so trivial could cause such chaos. "Strong leadership is required to make sure that is what happens."
Jackson said nothing, feeling suddenly aware of the cold-blooded doctor behind him, his narrow slits of eyes seeming to bore into the Major's head. He wondered why the colonel hadn't just passed leadership duties over to Gallagher. After all, he seemed to want someone to take over who fitted exactly Gallagher's profile.
"I'll do my best, sir," Jackson said, calmly but not confidently. "Under your guidance, of course."
The colonel laughed. "I'll be dead within the day," he said, a touch of anger resonating throughout his body in the guise of a wheeze. "But I've left strict instruction for my body to be donated to Dr Gallagher's project. Now, please leave me," he said. "I don't have long left, and I'm damn sure I'm not going to waste my final moments on a prick like you."
Jackson couldn't believe the colonel had just said what he thought he had said. He looked over at Gallagher, his jaw hanging almost to the floor in disbelief. But Gallagher looked back at him, almost smiling beneath his benign expression.
"If you could come this way, sir," he said, gesturing Jackson towards the door, as if he were a normal doctor, an ethical doctor. "It's time to leave the colonel to his final rest."
Jackson moved out the door, knowing that the next time he returned, the man he had just been talking to would no longer be a man. In fact, he would no longer be alive, instead taking on the form of something that was, at best, imitating life. He was led to his quarters by Gallagher, where he was left to settle in. He had been given a modest room with the very basics a man required for life - a bed, a desk, a sink. On the wall was a single picture, a painting of a sunrise. It spoke of the only thing that Jackson could be sure of, anymore. That the sun would continue to rise. That the world would continue to turn. Nothing else was written in stone.
"Good, you're awake "
Geri rubbed her eyes, too sleepy to notice that she was sloped over a chair, loosely tied. It was the tattooed man who addressed her.
"Oh, the rope was just to stop you from slipping off the chair," he said, smiling as if there were some kind of joke in that sentence. He was talking to her through a glass door. She'd come to while they were tying her to the chair, but she had decided still to feign unconsciousness. It seemed that, while pretending to be unconscious, she'd actually dozed off. Typical, really, she thought to herself. She always did love her sleep, even though she hadn't really had any for the last week.
Geri allowed her sleepy eyes to sweep her surroundings. She was in a glass patio at the rear of the house. It had obviously been an extension that was built fairly recently. They were popular for those kinds of terraced houses, offering some extra room and space to the rear of the house, where the gardens were often generously sized. The patio had been someone's pet project. Someone who was most likely dead or undead right now.
"It wasn't my idea," continued the tattooed man, palm pressed against the glass door as he talked. "But McFall thinks you're infected. This is your quarantine."
"I need to piss " Geri said, uncouthly.
"Then piss," he replied. She had heard him being referred to by the other man as 'Lark.' It had struck her as a rather strange name. Strange name for a strange- looking man. "You're not really tied to the chair. Remember? It'll be easy to shake yourself free."
He watched her, almost leeringly, as if wanting to see her try that manoeuvre. But she didn't move.
Lark was still rattling on, though, like the insensitive lout he was. "I'm sure you'll find a pan in the cupboards that you can use," he said, "or you can use the sink - I think it still drains okay." He smiled, somewhat politely or ironically (Geri couldn't be sure which) as he pointed over to the small sink and cupboards next to the washing machine.
"Fuck you " Geri said. She had decided he wasn't being polite, so why should she.
"Listen, I'm sorry about this," he countered, "but we need to know you're clean. McFall said he saw you sneeze."
"It's hay fever. I already told him that."
"Sure, and if it doesn't develop into flu in the next couple of days, you'll be welcomed back into the house."
"I just want to leave "
"Go back out there? Are you mad? Seriously, you're better in here. But I'm warning you, there'll always be one of us around, so don't try anything stupid."
Geri got up from the chair, feeling the muscles in her leg seizing up. She rubbed them, trying to ease the stiffness. Her wounded foot still hurt like a bitch, causing her to limp. She grimaced with the pain, setting herself down in the chair, again. She looked up at Lark, but he had disappeared back into the kitchen, it seemed. So much for someone always watching.
Her hand ran over the front pockets of her jeans. She checked for the bump in the denim - the bullet she had acquired from earlier still in her pocket. Again, she pulled her long t-shirt down to cover her pockets, smiling to herself. She couldn't believe those idiots had missed that one.
She rose from her chair, limping over to the generously glassed patio windows. It looked out onto a small garden that had once been someone's pride and joy. There were colourful flower beds, pepper-dash stones and an ornamental fountain - all landscaped to perfection. Yet, without tending, the garden was becoming wild. A mass of sombre-looking green weeds threatened the daintily coloured tulips. Grass sprouted up through the stones like hands from a grave. From the sky, the evening sun looked on like a powerless god.
Geri ventured over to the cupboards, wondering how best to take her piss. She fumbled through the cupboards, finding a sizable pan that should suffice. Nosily, she opened a couple of nearby drawers, finding nothing but scissors and plastic cutlery and other useless household items. She opened another drawer, noticing cotton wool, antiseptic, bandaging and waterproof plasters. She took the lot, throwing all the items into her new pseudo toilet bowl. Adding a roll of kitchen towel to the pile, she proceeded back to the white plastic dining table that looked out onto the garden.
She sighed, setting up her makeshift toilet behind the table. In the dim, evening sun, she undid the button and zip of her jeans, rolled them down and squatted to piss into the po
t.
This is as bad as it gets, she thought to herself.
McFall stood looking out onto the street from the upstairs window. The light was dimming, evening's shadows moving in to throw a curtain over the day's events. He would be settling down to sleep soon, and it couldn't come soon enough. He felt knackered after all that had happened, all the excitement of the day's events. He promised himself never to go out there again, unless he really fucking had to.
Through the flower-patterned curtains, McFall could see a couple of the dead wandering aimlessly through the streets. It was the same story every night, almost as if they were on some sort of evening patrol, but they never seemed to cotton on to the fact that there were survivors in this particular house. And even when they did, just like before with the girl, it seemed to leave their minds like goldfish when you tapped their bowl - suddenly and momentarily riled before becoming quiet again. Tonight, they didn't seem to know he was looking at them, but he was still careful to peek from behind the curtain, nonetheless.
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