Flu

by Wayne Simmons

  Pat slowly opened the door, shining his torch back into the hallway. From her vantage point, Karen thought she could see movement, and it made her jump.

  "What is it?" Pat whispered.

  "I thought I saw something move," Karen replied.

  Pat stepped into the hall, gun pointing alongside the light. His poise reminded Karen of a marine from the footage she had seen on the news. He moved assertively and fearlessly into the hall, ready to pump lead into whatever nasty that presented itself.

  Karen followed him, snapping her own torch into action and trying to emulate Pat's poise with her own handgun. Together they searched the living room, finding nothing of interest. From the quality of furniture in the house, Karen thought that the residents were fairly poor. She noticed a photo sitting on the coffee table by the old television set, lifting it and shining her torch on it.

  "It's a picture of a woman and a little girl," she said, carrying it to Pat. "They look kinda foreign or -" She suddenly tripped over something on the floor, jumping with the shock of it. The photo clipped from her hands, the glass of its frame splintering as it hit the coffee table. She shined the torch down, finding some glass on the floor. A tin of paint sat at her feet beside the broken glass. It seemed someone had been planning to spruce the place up before everything changed and redecoration became the least of their concerns.

  "Jesus, keep it down!" Pat said, irritated.

  "Why?" she said, "I thought they couldn't hear anything." She was referring to the dead, of course. Of their blocked sinuses. Of Pat's theory on how that would mean they couldn't hear very much.

  "You still need to be careful," Pat mumbled grumpily. He seemed guarded to her, more awkward than ever. It was as if he were embarrassed by what had happened before. By what he'd done to her. Karen began to feel a little sorry for him. She began to entertain the possibility that maybe it had been her fault, maybe her constant neediness had made Pat do what he did. Maybe she'd pushed him too far, leaving him with no choice but to lash out at her, lash out, even, at the helicopter that could, for all intents and purposes, have been their salvation.

  She thought back to the church where she'd first taken refuge. Of how she'd shied away when other people tried to protect her. Of how they fought bitterly while she hid, scared and useless. Cowering like a big baby. They had died trying to protect her, died without saying a single thing against her. But Karen wondered if things would have been different were she not around. If they would have managed to survive, managed to keep the dead out and the virus at bay. She began to wonder if she were the one who brought misery to a place. Contaminating everything and everyone she touched, like the flu itself.

  A sudden noise shocked Karen out of her maudlin thoughts.

  "Did you hear that?" she whispered to Pat.

  He nodded silently. He pointed out the living room door and down the hallway, bringing a finger across his lips to silence her. They moved out of the living room, noticing the bathroom staring back at them from the other end of the hall. They moved towards it, both survivors taking care not to cause any noise with their approaching footsteps. The door was closed tight. A sudden knock against it startled both survivors. It was the sound they'd heard from the living room.

  "Okay," Pat whispered. "I think there's one of them trapped in there."

  "We should check," Karen said, "because whatever I heard from outside sounded more human. You heard it yourself, too."

  Pat nodded, another knock confirming his diagnosis of the situation. It was a hollow knock, weak and lethargic. Not frantic, like what Karen would expect from a trapped human. Pat pointed at the door handle with his handgun, standing a safe distance from the door. He motioned to Karen to stand back.

  He fired twice, blowing the handle into pieces which fell onto the carpeted hall floor.

  The door suddenly swung open, revealing the heavily bloodied and bile-stained body of a woman, who stood glaring at them. She moved suddenly toward Pat, but he fired another two shots, splitting her head in the same way he split the door handle. The woman fell to the ground, her body jerking, momentarily, before falling still.

  "Was it the woman in the photo?" Karen asked, realising her heart was racing with the action.

  "Probably," Pat said.

  "I really didn't think the sounds I heard were from one of them," she said, unable to take her eyes from the body.

  "Okay," Pat said, turning away from the fallen body. "Sure, we'll take a quick look -"

  But he paused, standing stalactite still in the corridor, eyes fixed on something further down. He fell completely silent, and Karen followed his gaze to see why. She noticed a figure in the darkness at the other end of the hallway. She lifted her torch, instinctively, finding the shape of a little girl, probably six or seven years old, looking back at her. Her tiny, chocolate brown eyes were wide and hungry looking. Her mouth and nose were swollen and caked in dry blood.

  Pat looked at her, not seeming to know what to do.

  The child suddenly started to cry, the way normal, human children did. Karen realised it had been this very sound she'd heard from the flat.

  "My God " Pat said, rubbing his mouth. "She's alive. Really alive"

  Chapter Twenty Two

  She woke up with a start.

  She'd been dreaming about George and Norman. In the dream, Norman looked frail, about twice his age. He was running awkwardly through the streets of Belfast, as if trying to flee the dead. But it wasn't the dead he was fleeing. It was the living. George, Lark, McFall and herself hunting him. Growling like animals as they gave chase. Foam drooling from their mouths, as if possessed.

  Geri noticed light pouring in from the curtains. It couldn't be that late. She pulled the duvet back, realising that she was still wearing her jeans and t-shirt. She couldn't remember getting into bed. God, she must have been so tired. Slipping on her trainers, she moved quietly out of her room and crept down the stairs. She heard a sound coming from the kitchen. She paused, noticing her heart leaping for a second. Gingerly, she moved into the kitchen to investigate.

  She noticed a man in the patio, but not someone she recognised. He was squat, stocky, with thick, curly hair. He sat calmly at the patio table, drinking beer. He didn't look like an intruder. In fact, he looked comfortable. Almost familiar. She wondered, for a second, if he were someone whom the others had met while she was sleeping.

  She noticed the revolver sitting at the kitchen table. She reached for it slowly, checking, quickly, that it was loaded. Against her better judgement, she moved to open the patio door.

  The man looked up, noticing her.

  "No, don't open it," he said. His voice was familiar.

  Geri froze. On the table was a balaclava. Beside the balaclava was a box of tissues and a magazine. A used tissue lay on the floor beside the table. It was stained with blood. The man sneezed. He followed up the sneeze with a laugh. Tears filled his eyes, and she wasn't sure if they were from sneezing or crying.

  "It's not hayfever," he said, smiling. His smile was warm and attractive, and that surprised her. She had never thought he'd look like this under the woollen mask. She'd thought he'd be ugly, even stupid looking. She'd treated him as if he were ugly and stupid.

  "I'm sorry," she said, pressing her hand against the glass.

  "Don't be," he said, still smiling. He lifted a can of beer from the table. "Lark brought me it," he said, grinning comically.

  Geri smiled back. "What'll you do?" she asked, not sure what else to say. She'd never had much of a rapport with McFall. None of them had, apart from Lark, maybe. There was no point in trying to pretend otherwise.

  "Have another a drink or two," he said, "Lark brought me a few. "He took another swig, burping at the end of it. "Then, when they're done, I was hoping to go out with a bang." He pointed to the revolver in her hand. "All those films you see," he said, looking at the gun as if it was something rare and precious, "tell you that you have to shoot them in the head." He looked up at her, and she coul
d see that his eyes were red and puffed. "I don't want to be one of those things," he said, choking slightly.

  Geri felt a lump gathering in her throat. She didn't want to lose it, not in front of him. It would seem insincere to shed crocodile tears. It would also be selfish. He didn't need that, now. She didn't know what he needed, but it wasn't that.

  "You better go," he said, almost as if sensing her discomfort. "Probably best you leave the house. I think Lark's gone, already. Just leave me that revolver"

  She pressed her hand against the window, again, as a goodbye. It left a clammy print on the glass which blurred her view of his face.

  Geri sat the revolver on the kitchen table then moved through the kitchen into the hallway. Moving back upstairs, she retrieved the Glock handgun Lark had found for her earlier, pausing to pack a few things into a bag. Lifting both bag and gun, she went back downstairs, reaching the front door. She looked out the small window. The Land Rover was still parked where they had left it, just outside the house. Lark had obviously not taken it when he'd left. She thought she could remember leaving the keys in the vehicle. Several of the dead hung around, as if bored. She felt as if they ruined the moment she had just shared, seemingly oblivious to the ill-fated McFall. For some reason, Geri thought they should be doing something different. Bowing their heads in respect. Anything, really, to offer their condolences. Gloating, even. But to just ignore him like they were, carrying on as they always did, seemed indulgently callous.

  She opened the door, making sure to close it behind her. She didn't want those fuckers ruining McFall's last hours. Hovering like hawks over a dying man. One of the dead stirred, moving for her with an aggression she hadn't sensed in them, before. She aimed her Glock and fired, piercing its head with the bullet. A part of its brain split from its head, and it looked surprised, momentarily, before falling to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Another looked up, but seemed reluctant to challenge her. It was as if it were aware of the danger, acting with self-interest. She maintained her aim while moving towards the vehicle. The thing didn't move, still glaring at her suspiciously as she moved. Another one surprised her from somewhere else, but she managed to kick it away while reaching for the passenger door of the Land Rover, firing at it as it stumbled away, blowing out half its chest.

  She slammed the door, once safely inside.

  A figure to her right scared her, and she raised the gun almost instinctually.

  Lark was sitting in the driving seat, staring into space.

  "Jesus!" she said, lowering the gun. "You gave me a fright. I thought you had left already."

  "Did you see him?" he asked, tears streaming down his face. It had made his eyeliner run. It looked like he was crying tears of ink. As if his tattoos were leaking, somehow, through his eyes.

  "Yes," she said quietly. "I saw him."

  He looked at her, smiling sadly.

  "I didn't call you," he said. "I kinda forgot. Sorry about that."

  "It's okay," she said.

  "He's a dick," Lark said, suddenly.

  "I know," Geri said, agreeing. "So are you."

  "I know," he said, choking a short guffaw of laughter back like an overexcited child. Then he buried his head in his hands and cried. He cried hard, the tears shaking through him as if boiling over. Geri placed on hand on his shoulder, gently, as if to steady him. As if to stop him from literally falling apart like a broken doll.

  For a few moments, they just sat there in the Land Rover. Him crying, her holding him. The dead peering in through the windscreen, like shoppers looking at a shop window. The sun was dipping in the sky, as if about to retire for the night, but wanting to offer a few words of condolence before doing so. Finally, he was still, raising his head from his hands as if he had nothing more to give. She took her hand from his shoulder without saying anything.

  "I feel bad about the cops," she said. "I dreamt about them when I was sleeping."

  "Yeah?" Lark replied, wiping a tear from his eye.

  "Yeah," she said. "I don't want us to lose what makes us human. We'll be one step closer to those things outside if we do."

  "Maybe," he said. He didn't seem to care. "Do you want to go back to the store, then?"

  "Do you?" she asked him.

  "I just want to be away from here," he said. "I don't care where we go."

  She looked at him in a different way. The fading light cast a flattering shadow across his tired, solemn face. She realised that he was handsome in a rough kind of way. And his tattoos she hadn't really looked at them properly, until now. One of them stood out to her. It was an antiquated looking samurai, Japanese style, on his forearm. It had one eye looking up as it held its sword aloft. It looked sad, somehow, while still embroiled in the fight. It was like its eyes told one story while its sword told another.

  "Do they hurt?" she asked, reaching forward and running her finger over the samurai. He jumped, as if her fingers were tattooing him, then, relaxed, again. She noticed the hairs on his arm standing on edge.

  "That one did," he said.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  George sat on the cold, hard, concrete floor of the storeroom, leaning his back against a couple of boxes of bleach. In one hand was a half-empty bottle of warm vodka. The other hand held his handgun. Opposite him lay the body of his colleague and - perhaps - friend, Norman Coulter.

  George could hear the movements of the dead outside. They were gathering at the storeroom entrance like vultures around a carcass. He reckoned they would be hard pressed to get in. However, the noise of their attempts was enough to disturb him, preventing him from sleeping through the night. Of course, he was unlikely to sleep soundly beside

  He would never in a million years have thought that he would have to keep this type of vigil over Norman. The kind where a gun was required. If anything, he'd have expected things to be the other way around - the big man loyally standing over his body, waiting for it to stir before, solemnly, putting a bullet through his head. But here they were, and that just wasn't the way things had rolled.

  He wondered how long it would be until he, too, contracted the virus. Falling ill, no one but himself to put bullet through his brain. It was so hopeless that he reckoned he'd probably have done it right after putting

  Norman down, but he'd made a promise to a dying man and that meant something more than ever, now. It seemed that in a world like this, patrolled by Death itself, even more respect was demanded for those who had passed.

  He recalled a time, when he'd just joined the force, being the first to arrive upon a random shooting. Rarely, for Belfast, it wasn't a sectarian attack. Just a pub brawl gone nasty, ending in one party going home for his shotgun before returning to the scene. The perpetrator even had a licence for the gun, which at the time had struck George as odd.

  George had been working the graveyard shift, receiving the call just after 1:00am. He got there pretty quickly, even before the ambulance. One man was lying on the road, the other simply standing mutely with the shotgun in his hands. Punters surrounded them as if it were some kind of street theatre being acted out. The wounded man was almost blue by the time George got to him, but he tried to keep him talking, applying pressure to his wound as he chatted aimlessly about nothing. The man knew he was dead, though. It was almost as if he could feel the life drain from his body, knowing exactly how much he had left and how long it would take to fully empty. He said only one thing to George.

  Tell my wife she was right.

  George remembered feeling burdened with the words. He didn't know what they meant, but he knew that he had to pass the message on. Exactly as it had been told to him. After all, he thought, if it had been my wife, I'd want her to know the exact words.

  He waited until the funeral, a sombre affair made all the more grim by the typical Northern Irish weather. He spotted a young woman at the front of the small crowd. He remembered thinking how pretty she looked in her black dress and feeling guilty for even thinking it. This was a woman mourning, he r
eminded himself, not some skank at a night club.

  George approached the woman, asking if she were the widow. She cried, reciting the word 'widow' as if it was a sudden realisation of what the day had been about. As if George talking to her made it all the more real, an event that meant something beyond the graveside. George introduced himself and passed on the message. Tell my wife she was right, he said slowly and clearly. He even remembered smiling, once it had been said. He had practised the smile in the mirror before coming out. But she never thanked George for the message, nor did she express ingratitude. She simply nodded before being led away under an umbrella.

  Later that week, George heard from Norman of another tragedy. Remember that bloke you were called to who had been shot? He said. The one from the bar brawl? George would never forget it. Well, said Norman, the wife's only gone and done herself in and all. Seems she couldn't live without him. Later George discovered the truth. She'd accused him of cheating on her with her best friend. He'd vehemently denied it, storming out for a night on the booze. It was the last she'd seen of him.

  A sudden sound snapped George out of his daze. He looked to the bed in front of him. The big man's eyes had opened, and his body was shaking, as if recharging. He coughed up some phlegm from his lungs. It slid out of his mouth like drops of red paint. He stared at George for a while, as if surprised to see him. George waited for a moment, taking another heavy swig of vodka.

  The big man was on his feet, stumbling around as if he, too, were drunk. He looked at George as if about to say something, but then forgot what it was.

  George rose to his feet, grip tightening on his handgun. For some reason he felt suddenly angry with Dead Norman. It was as if he were disappointed that he was no different to the rest of the dead fucks outside. No smarter, no more able to articulate himself. A part of him thought Norman should have had more class than them, more dignity. But he stumbled about just as aimlessly, grunting and sniffling exactly the same way a hundred or thousand others got on.