'You hear about the new acquisition?'
Baker glanced down at his friend, his curiosity mildly piqued. 'Which one?' Kingsley lifted the bottle to his lips before replying. 'Armoury.' Baker nodded before consciously realising Kingsley couldn't actually see him nod.
Davies glanced quizzically from one man to the other as he listened to Baker's reply.
Kingsley stood up. 'Want another?'
Baker chuckled as he drained the last of the amber liquid and tossed the bottle into the bin.
'Sure, bottle opener is on the drainer.'
'So what's this new acquisition then?' Baker smiled at the look on Davies' features. His lined and battle-worn face torn between annoyance and a childlike eagerness to know.
'Secondary sidearm… Anna recommended it. Seems the Russians have been having a lot of trouble with the "Newer" Infected. Same problem the Yanks had in Vietnam with the introduction of the old style 5.56.'
Davies nodded. 'You mean with the whole Viet Cong getting hit a couple of dozen times and getting up again.'
Baker nodded and carried on speaking. 'Anyway, it's one of the latest Smith and Wesson revolvers, fires either a .410 shotgun shell, 45ACP, or the 45 Colt round. Despite the six-round maximum capacity, this thing is like holding a cannon in your palm—blows holes through just about anything.'
Davies snorted derisively. 'I doubt that somehow. Nice gun though. Seen it before.'
Baker grinned at Davies. 'Thought you'd say that; you know this is the one favoured by Floridian alligator hunters.'
Davies' eyebrows rose as he thought through the implication of Baker's words. 'No wonder they call it the Governor.'
Baker grinned as he pushed up from the chair and went down the four steps to his lawn; the bottle hung limply from his fingers as he made his way towards the barbecue. The scent of sauce-covered steaks wafted over him as he reached forwards, lifting the top cover clear. Smoke swirled up, filling his throat as he wafted his empty hand to clear his vision.
Setting his drink down on the tray table to his right, he picked up the oak-handled tongs. Reaching forwards, he slid the stainless steel plates of the flat-headed tongs along the grill, watching as the steaks lifted and bulged. He gingerly flipped the inch-thick slabs of meat over, listening to the hiss of melting fat as it dripped free and landed with an oily splat atop the glowing coals.
A slim arm encircled his waist as a miniature hand batted at his shoulder; he smiled as he felt Maria's petite fingers ensnare the cotton of his tee shirt. Shifting the tongs to his other hand he twisted, lifting Maria from Janet's arms and bouncing his little girl on his forearm as her hands closed around the collar of his shirt. A soft yawn left her as she nestled against his chest.
'Looks like she just made herself at home.' Derek smirked as Janet lay her head on his shoulder. 'How long you got free?'
Baker's shoulder sagged as he set the steaks onto the waiting plate and turning, his daughter slumbering against his shoulder, cast his gaze slightly downwards, his eyes locking onto Janet's. The drifting swirl of fear, pain, and sheer fatigue weighed heavy in his eyes. Lifting her hand, she traced her fingers along the edge of his jaw.
'We don't know; none of us do, with the way things are...'
He trailed off as he set the platter down on the garden table. A lump caught in his throat as he turned, his eyes scanning the chairs set around the table. His friends and teammates stood, despite the two empty seats none of them dared go near. The hand-carved names on the backrests were enough to deter them all. Baker let his eyes trace the scrollwork, the hours he had put into carving the twenty-two original seats and the seven additions that adorned his garden. Swallowing hard, he brushed his lips against Janet's forehead and moved past her.
'I'll put Maria to bed; the monitor is on the table.'
Janet smiled at him as he spoke. 'I know, you Muppet; I put it there, remember?'
Derek smiled and walked away, passing Kingsley and Davies as they made their way towards the table.
****
Derek sat, leaning forwards, his elbows resting limply on his knees as he stared out over his garden… from the carefully crafted borders that scalloped the lawn's edge to the centre rock garden and its sprawling range of miniature mountains.
His soul weighed heavy, pulling him down into the decking beneath his feet. He felt... tired; tired of living in a world filled with death and people so foul that they felt the need to inflict the most grievous of harm upon those they had never even met. Tired of the need for men like him, the ones who put themselves in the way of those willing to harm others in the name of misguided fanaticism and xenophobic hatred. The ones willing to lay down their own lives to protect their fellow man.
A soft snort left him as he pondered the words bouncing in his skull—a few measly lines from the lips of a man more world weary than he.
"Derek, nothing in this world can show the true nature of man better than war and nothing in nature wages war on its own kind, other than man; so, by our own nature and design, man is destined to exterminate itself and has done so ever since we crawled out of the swamp. You, me, and what we do is all that people have done for thousands of years—police the edges and skim off the crap that floats to the top. Sometimes I wish something would come along and give us all a good dose of chlorine and be done with it. Fuck natural selection; this damned gene pool went stagnant years ago."
A soft, sad, and weary smile tugged at his lips as he watched the wind stir the branches of the small conifer trees standing sentry at the foot of his lawn.
Janet stood, leaning in the doorway of their French windows, watching her husband. She idly toyed with the simple band of gold that encased her finger, turning the smooth polished surface over the soft skin of her finger. She stood vigil as he sat. Something tickled her mind as she watched him, a feeling so faint and brief that it was gone in seconds… like smoke through her fingers as she reached out to grasp it. The cold touch of the unknown rippled down her spine and she shivered. Hugging herself, she stepped out onto the deck and padded quietly towards her husband.
Her soft steps kissed his ears as she moved closer. Dragging his hands over his unshaven, weatherworn features, Derek spoke.
'I don't know if I can do this anymore.'
Janet froze, her feet stiff and cumbersome as her legs wobbled, leaving her teetering on the precipice of what lay before them. She shuffled forwards, her words falling dead as she tried to piece together some semblance of a normal thought.
'Do what?'
Derek clambered to his feet, his body a dead weight as he forced his world-weary frame to its full six foot three inches. His eyes bore into her, their hollow, empty gaze eating through her.
'I thought I could stop this, keep it in check, just push it under the carpet and go on like it never happened. But I can't; I can't keep pretending I'm okay.'
Janet just stood, watching and listening as he spoke, his gaze never leaving hers. Her heart trembled with fear, willing him not to utter those few words that she knew would bring her whole world crashing down around her.
'Every time we go, someone comes home in a fucking box. I used to be okay with it, squash it down, and push it away. Thinking of you made everything okay again. Thinking of how life could be without all this shit in the way. You, me, and Maria. But...'
He trailed off, his mind awash with the dancing images of places long past and faces just gone. Janet took a tentative step forwards, her slim hands reaching for him, he stepped away as her fingers brushed him. She left her hand lingering in the air for a moment before slowly letting it drop.
'It just doesn't work. Nothing works anymore; every time I close my eyes, I get the same damned nightmares. I put on a face when I wake up, pretend everything is going to be all right, that I can keep going; but I can't keep it on anymore; it hurts to wear it. It feels like I'm a stranger in my own damned skin. I just don't know who I am anymore.'
Janet rapidly closed the gap between them, ensnaring him in
a grip that only a band of iron could surpass; slowly Derek sagged, his body thumping into the railings behind him as he slid towards the floor.
'I... I... I just don't know if I can carry on. I don't know if I can trust myself to keep you safe; whatever I do, I know it's going to be the wrong choice... I... I just can't face it; I can't.'
Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he slowly crumpled under the weight of his own fears and doubts. He fell against Janet as he let it all pour forth. The loss of two of his oldest friends, the tipping point for all that he bore, his life choices like the weight of the world on Atlas' shoulders. Janet held her husband close, his body shaking as the tidal wave of fear, inadequacy, and shame poured over him.
In her heart, she knew the man before her would do all he could to keep her, their daughter, and anyone else around them, no matter who they were, safe from harm; but at that one singular moment she realised just how much he was giving up to do it.
Broadhead Armoury
The armourer grinned at the men as they stood in a rather impatient line whilst he dished out their latest acquisitions one soldier at a time. The compact clamshell holsters hugged the contours of the revolvers like skin. Jones lifted his, testing the weight in his hand. A soft scratching filled the air as he dragged the ballpoint pen across the pale yellow sheet of paper.
Nodding to the armourer, he picked up the weapon and left the low-lying brick building by the only other door available.
The gun sat in the small of his back, the hard-shell holster nestling against vest. Jones looked up, catching Baker's eye as he stepped out of Colinson's office. Baker's face all but bubbled as he waged war with the mix of rage and sadness, fighting for control as he looked up at Jones. They shared eye contact for a second before Jones nodded and walked away.
A high-pitched wail broke the silence. Jones cursed and sprinted after Baker; the siren meant one thing and one thing only, both men sharing a mutual dread at the thought of what lay ahead.
4
April Twenty-eighth
Central Middlesex Hospital
Janet stared around her, her daughter clutched to her chest as she sprinted through the corridors of the building; a heavy weight lay on her thigh as she ran.
The Sco19 officer bellowed down the corridor as Janet ran; her lungs burned, drawing her to tears with pain. Her teeth felt like bitter shards of ice-cold glass as she sucked in deep, lung-scalding gulps of disinfectant-tainted air.
Maria's plaintive wailing echoed off the walls as she squirmed in fear of the noises around her. Bullets flew past Janet's ears, the screams and garbled cries behind her snapping dead as the rounds found their marks. Looking to her right, she stared at the blood-spattered and sweat-stained form of Kevin as he held the shocked and quivering form of another nurse. The young girl's eyes were glued open with fear as she stared at the wall, driven beyond hysteria.
'Go! Fall back to the roof; a helicopter is waiting!'
The black-clad police officer pushed past them as he slapped a fresh magazine into his weapon and continued to fire, dreading the paperwork that was coming with it, if he lived that long.
He slowly began to walk backwards, his rifle snapping from target to target. Kicking out with his left foot, he watched as the magnetic locks holding the doors open died and the fireproof wood and plastic crashed together. The doors reverberated in their frame as body after body crashed into the solid sheet before them.
The officer peered through the eight-inch wide slit of reinforced mesh safety glass, his eyes tracking back and forth amongst the sea of faces.
The strutting, slathering form that greeted his gaze smiled as it watched the face behind the glass. The blood-laden sneering visage bent low, his head jerking from side to side like a bird's as he skulked closer to the window. The snapped, yellowing splinters of its nails scraped over the stippled, blue plastic coating the door as it pressed its face tight to the glass.
Saliva stained the transparent surface as it licked along the pane, tracing the outline of the officer's face with a viscous red-tinged, mucosa-filled sludge.
A cold reptilian look of calculation simmered in the eyes, holding the officer's vision. He watched, almost mesmerised as its gaze slowly dropped to the right side of the window. The officer's eyes followed the invisible line as he turned his gaze to the wall beside him. His head moved of its own volition as if his own sense of free will had deserted him, replaced by the machinations of something far more sinister than that which stood before him beyond the hospital door.
A dull clunk issued from somewhere in front of him as his eyes latched on to the grey plastic and chrome box on the wall; the splay-fingered indented image of an adult hand glowered back at him. His vision went blue as the emergency fire doors swung inwards. Turning his head once more, he came eye to eye with the grinning cat-eyed form in front him; its stained, gore-covered lips pursed in a mocking kiss.
'I want my mum,' was all he had time to utter before the grinning, bloodstained, Infected launched itself at him in a cackling gaggle of limbs and teeth.
Broadhead Operations Centre
'We have a job, people; the virus has infected three floors of the Central Middlesex Hospital.'
Baker's gut clenched tight as his body went cold. Colinson's words rang in his ears as he thought back to the conversation he'd had with Janet three days before.
****
They sat around the table in their kitchen, steam curling up between them from the mugs they clutched in their hands, the silence stretched thin like a layer of butter over too much bread. The strain of its tension mounting as Janet stared at the scarred wood of the solid pine table.
Her eyes tracked the swirls and twists of the timber's grain as it wormed away from her. Slowly, she looked up into the eyes of her husband; a soft smile danced in them as he looked back at her before it faded away, any attempt at conversation lost.
The silence was broken by the chirping burble rolling out of the radio that sat on the far edge of the table. Janet hurriedly pushed her chair away and stood, muttering quickly about needing to feed Maria. Baker sighed deeply; he knew something was wrong. Things hadn't been right for almost a month, even before Maria's birth. Things had taken a sudden twist; something had changed, not only in their relationship, but in Janet herself. And if he was to admit it, himself as well.
Baker sighed as he lifted the mug and emptied its contents down his throat before rising from the table and walking across the kitchen to the sink. The cold water shocked his skin as he rinsed out the cup, his hand gliding over the inside of the ceramic mug as a soft squeak issued up from inside of it. The skin of his hand tugged at the glazed surface of the pale blue vessel. He emptied out the water and turned off the tap as he set the dripping mug on the draining board.
Turning, he walked out the kitchen; his booted feet thumped against the floor as he walked towards the front door, the sound echoing back of the near deathly silence that had enveloped their home in the last four months. He stopped momentarily and quietly looked in through the gap between the door and doorframe leading into the small room where his daughter slept. He silently watched the suckling form of his daughter as she drank, her fingers wrapped in Janet's shirt, the nub of her mother's nipple clasped between her lips.
Janet looked up and saw Derek watching. A wan smile crossed her face as she locked gazes with him. Quietly, she beckoned him in and watched as he stepped softly into the room.
'I am working at Central Middlesex for the next three weeks. Not sure how my hours are going to play out, so I am going to take Maria with me.'
Derek nodded as he smiled down at Janet. 'Okay, darling; no problem.'
Baker turned and left the room. Janet watched, tears stinging her eyes as he walked away—no goodbye, no parting kiss, nothing. He simply left. With a heavy heart and a deep feeling of dread, she knew something had irrevocably changed and it wasn't for the better.
****
Baker felt his stomach lurch and his inner
equilibrium twist like a snake in a whirlpool as his mind bounced itself back to the here and now, his mind flaring like a comet ploughing into the sun. He fought the need to vomit as he nodded grim-faced at Colinson. The man's question drifted out the door into the cold light of day long before Baker's mind even registered he was being spoken to. Colinson motioned for Baker to hold off as the other team commanders filed out of the room. Baker stopped and turned, walking back through the rows of chairs until he stood opposite Colinson.
'You okay?'
Concern tinged Colinson's voice as he spoke, watching Baker for any hint of falsehood or avoidance that may have wormed its way into his reply.
'Fine.' Baker's voice was flat, emotionless, the normal jovial inflection in his accented tones gone. It left his voice a dull, monotone parody of itself. Colinson's hackles went up as he gauged Baker's reply.
Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined Page 4