Denny raised his eyebrows incredulously. “We have been trying so hard to keep those creatures out of here and now you are suggesting that we actually bring one of them in ourselves?”
“I know it would be risky,” she said, “but at the moment I’m afraid we’re living in tough times. Whenever anybody steps outside the base it’s unsafe and everything that might help us to survive has got to be considered. Apart from anything else, we may actually be able to work out how to cure them. Surely that is the ultimate goal? I mean, they aren’t monsters, they are human beings. They may be acting more like zombies from some horror film but they are still people.”
Both Lewis and Singleton were silent but turned together to stare at Denny who held his head in his hands again.
“Okay these are all valid points. Just… let me think about it a while please…” He was almost whining at them in despair and Lewis and Singleton exchanged a glance. Denny did not see the look but continued. “To let one of them in just feels so very wrong. And yes, there may be other survivors out there, but they have survived without our help so far, so to go out and put more of our men in jeopardy goes against the grain. Look, please, let me think about it all for tonight and we will talk more, first thing tomorrow.”
The conversation ended and they left him alone. Singleton strode away quickly, leaving Lewis to dawdle behind. He knew that they were all under a lot of stress but nevertheless that just made it even more important to work together. He was worried about his commanding officer and he needed to figure out how to bring Singleton around and onto his side. If Denny could not handle the pressure then he would need her assistance like never before.
Denny sat quietly contemplating their ideas. Certainly there was merit in the thought of getting outside more to try to find other survivors. Much as he hated to admit it there was also some sense in Singleton’s plan. He was very aware however, that whilst they had these great notions of what they should all be doing, the ultimate responsibility for everyone’s welfare lay with him, and he was having to consider not just what might be the positive side to their ideas but also what might be the worst case should these plans go wrong. He sat in his chair staring out into the dark night a while longer, all kinds of confused thoughts plaguing him.
After the debrief Abbott had got back to his room, staggered through the door and sank onto his bed for the second time that evening. The voices in his mind were practically intelligible now, focused towards the front of his head, reverberating like a dentist’s drill. He had experienced many hangovers in his life and aspects of this pain were similar to the worst; the pounding, spinning, compressing feeling that his brain was being kneaded and squashed and wanted to burst out, accompanied by the waves of nausea. This time he was able to find his painkillers and washed down an irresponsibly large handful with a swig of whiskey from a small bottle on a shelf, before drinking deeply from some water beside his bed to try and quench his growing thirst.
He had been close to Campos. They had worked together for a couple of years, but the pain of his death had been tempered by the very real need to survive himself. When he had related the experience to Lewis and the other two he had felt detached and cold, and although he could see that they were stunned and deeply affected by his words, he no longer felt any emotion about it. Similarly hearing that Sinna and Rohith were also probably dead had not moved him as much as it should. He was not sure if that had been due to shock setting in or the terrible thumping in his head, but he was angry with Sinna for not having made it to the house as arranged. He was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything or continue any chain of rational thought, but the image of the child’s pink shoe in the garden next to Campos’s house continually tormented him. He pushed the door to and started to undress. He got as far as taking his top off before he collapsed and passed out. The door had just clicked shut, so unfortunately nobody would see his deterioration and come to his aid before it was too late.
CHAPTER 7
Corporal Charlotte Collins walked her dog, Cujo, towards the dining area. Her left knee was stiff and often ached first thing in the morning until she had stretched a little. She was a dog handler in the army and had been on patrol in Northern Ireland when she had tumbled out of a first floor window during an altercation. After she had fallen Cujo had gone berserk and attacked her assailant, putting the fear of God into his soul and several teeth marks into his arm. Although Collins had injured her hip in the fall it was the damage to her leg that was taking longer to heal. Her recovery had progressed well however. She had done a lot of exercise whilst at Headley Court and was in excellent physical shape, perhaps better than she had been for many years. She was on the verge of being sent back to her unit when the state of emergency was declared. It is never particularly wise to separate a military dog from its handler for an extended period of time as the special bond that has been created between the two needs constant reinforcement. Special provisions had therefore been made for Cujo to be kept at the base with her.
As she walked along the corridor she heard strange grunts and muffled groans coming from somewhere ahead, as though someone was in pain. She slowed up, trying to work out what was causing the weird noises. Everyone was a little twitchy these days and the slightest thing out of the ordinary made one suspicious. She started to feel uneasy. Her pace slowed and Cujo checked himself and fell into step beside her. She was getting closer to the source of the sounds and looked nervously behind her, hoping someone else might be nearby. It was only as she approached the entrance to the gym that the cause became apparent. She peered through the wide, double doors in relief. Inside Corporal Bannister was wearing black gym shorts and a tight, pale blue t-shirt that now had dark sweat rings around the neck and arms. He was holding two boxing pads and it was he who was making the moaning sounds as his friend, Lance Corporal Millington, laid into the pads with precision and ruthless aggression in the form of punches, knees and the occasional flying kick. Bannister was not a small man and neither was he slight, but Millington stood a good head and shoulders taller and looked like a cage fighter. His limbs were thick and powerful and he appeared to have virtually no neck as the muscles on his shoulders rose to meet his ears. He was, without doubt, the fittest person Collins had ever seen. That kind of supremely muscular physique always reminded Corporal Collins of pictures she had seen when she was at school, of the bodies of flies under extreme magnification; their limbs seemed overly developed as though they were pumped up on minute quantities of steroids with all segments of their anatomy looking very distinctly separate. He was black, his head was shaved and his nose bent out of shape either from rugby or fighting injuries. There was a collection of small scars on his hands and around his cheeks and eyebrows that each alluded to an interesting story. He was not classically handsome, but despite his build he was very laid-back. Collins found the combination of strength with kind-hearted gentleness very attractive and he had the biggest grin that was never far from the surface. He was topless and sported an array of tattoos on his arms. The one that always caught Collins’s attention was the extremely colourful British Bulldog smoking a cigar on his shoulder, a canine representation of Winston Churchill, she supposed.
With each blow to the pads Bannister was sent staggering a few feet back. They were the most unlikely of friends. Bannister was from the Wirral, just outside Liverpool. He had been a young offender, committing petty theft and stealing cars, and was well on his way to a life of crime when a sudden change of direction motivated by the death of his older brother saw him join the army. Millington was a youth champion kick-boxer from Hackney with a mild Jamaican twang. As well as their geographical differences though, there was the dissimilarity between their characters which was just as extreme. The two of them would never have developed a friendship had it not been for the military bringing them together and giving them something in common. Now as often as not they were inseparable. Collins stood quietly observing them for a while. When they saw her watching they
stopped, both flush and panting.
“I worry about you boys you know,” she quipped, “spending so much time half-naked and sweaty in the gym together. I mean this man-love is a beautiful thing but please, keep it under wraps.”
“Ah you know I only have eyes for you,” countered Bannister without faltering. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“In your dreams and besides, what would your boyfriend think of that?” She nodded towards Millington.
“He does what I tell him to.” Bannister punched him hard on the arm but Millington did not even flinch. “More to the point, what would your boyfriend think of it?” He looked at Cujo.
Collins laughed and then quietly muttered a word to Cujo who was still standing attentively by her side and they walked on. Collins had lived all her life with banter of a sexual nature from men. That had only increased when she joined the army and she was used to ignoring it, especially from Bannister who seemed to be more ready than most with a flirtatious comment.
As she left, Bannister watched admiringly as her toned figure disappeared from view and then turned to his large friend. “Now there’s a sight that’ll awaken the bacon. Clearly her arse has never heard of Newton.”
“Huh?” Millington looked puzzled.
“Sir Isaac Newton? Gravity? Ah, nothing numb-nuts, I’m just saying she’s mighty fine. She so wants me. Did ya see the way she couldn’t take her eyes off me?” His Liverpudlian accent was strong but Millington had grown used to it and hardly noticed it now.
“Yeah, like she said - in your dreams,” he drawled sonorously with a grin. “She’s only got eyes for one male and he has two more legs and a lot more bite than you do.”
“Pah! It’s just a matter of time. And with a rapidly diminishing gene pool to choose from, it’s gonna be me and her before she knows it.”
She heard the coarse laughter as she walked away and although she did not know what was actually said, she felt sure she could guess the subject matter.
In the dining hall there were half a dozen people sat having breakfast already and a vague smell of cooking coming from the kitchens. Meals were not what they once were, as supplies dwindled and patrols had to go and scavenge for food from outside the base. Recently though four chickens had been found in the rear garden of a nearby house and they were now kept by the kitchens. Sergeant Vallage was in charge of catering on the station and had assumed the responsibility for looking after the birds himself, although he readily admitted that he knew next to nothing about their care. Three of the chickens produced eggs and were clearly female, so he called them Cath, Harriet and Caz after his own daughters. The fourth, a mangy looking bird, did not lay any eggs. Vallage was fond of remarking that all it produced was ‘jack shit’, so he named it Jack and constantly swore at the creature, promising that it would be first to be cooked as soon as it had some meat on it. He fed Jack and the three hens on scraps and leftovers. Occasionally the standard breakfast of porridge, cereal or tinned fruit was spruced up with the addition of a small omelette. Meals quickly got boring but these were desperate times so nobody complained to the chef. If they had it would have fallen on deaf ears anyway; Sergeant Vallage was not exactly renowned for trying to create meals that actually pleased his diners. He had been serving food to the Royal Air Force for over thirty years and his menus seldom varied in times of plenty, let alone times of thrift.
As Collins entered the dining area there was the sound of banging and shouting from within the kitchens. Neale came scarpering out, casting a troubled look over his shoulder and almost collided with her.
“Valllage is in even more of a foul mood than usual,” he confided in her. “Make sure you don’t criticise the porridge.”
Although Collins was hungry the thought of breakfast did not fill her with joy. She collected a tray with food on it, having made suitably complimentary noises, and something simple for Cujo. She glanced around the room before choosing a table with Corporal Reggie Pethard, his wife Emma and Sergeant Liam Wood. Other than Vida Masters, Emma was the only other spouse on base. As Collins reached the table Sergeant Wood half rose and slid her chair out for her, which made her smile and Pethard laughed mockingly. She liked Wood. They did not know each other well but he seemed to possess much of the self-assured strength that she admired in Millington, albeit perhaps without the warmth or compassion.
Emma dug Corporal Pethard in the ribs. “Why don’t I get treated like that?”
“See what you’ve done now mate,” Pethard pointed a fork accusingly at Sergeant Wood. “You give the rest of us a bad name.”
“Sorry pal, I got it from watching your Bond movies and if it’s good enough for him…” They all laughed. Even when there was such extreme tragedy and adversity on a daily basis, Collins still appreciated the all too brief moments of mirth. She knew it was just a way of coping; without it they could all easily have broken under the pressures they now faced. She spent a moment settling Cujo who seemed unusually ill at ease and restless. I know how you feel, she thought, then turned back to the people at the table.
“Careful with that offensive weapon babe, you’ll have someone’s eye out.” Emma put a hand on Corporal Pethard’s and lowered the fork.
“Okay, I have a question,” continued Pethard, “best Bond actor ever?”
“No doubt about it,” Collins answered. “The last one, whatever his name was. That body and tight blue shorts, say no more. And about time there was a blond Bond.”
“His name is Daniel Craig and no, he isn’t the best,” replied Emma. “Pierce Brosnan does it for me.”
It was not usual for wives, let alone dogs, to eat on the base at Headley Court. Patients did not bring their spouses with them but were given a single room in the mess. Those who were permanent staff serving at the station had the option of having one of the married quarters, within the boundary wall but behind and out of sight of the main building, or living off base in the local neighbourhood. Either way the partner would only come to eat in the main mess building on special occasions. In the light of recent events normal protocol had been forgotten and now everyone possible had rooms in the main building. Emma Pethard had been visiting her husband, who was there for injuries to his shoulder and head, when the gates had been locked. As there were so few women, they had all bonded and Collins was close to her.
“Nah, I think old Brosnan was too affected. Too much quivering and pouting, too much emotion,” Wood said quietly, having the final word on the matter. “You can’t really beat Connery I’m afraid, the quintessential Bond - suave, detached and ruthlessly cold.”
Collins wondered, not for the first time, whether such a description might be applied to Wood as well.
“Well maybe you’re right but I’m afraid I just don’t have time to debate such deeply philosophical issues,” Emma stood up to take her leave, picking up a glass to carry to her room. “I have things to do.”
“Oh yes?” asked Collins. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Well I have a hair appointment at nine, followed by my tennis lesson and lunch with the girls. Then I’ll do a spot of shopping in London followed by a show and cocktails. Coming?”
“Thanks, I’d love to, after I’ve walked the dog.”
Cujo was still unsettled and had started whining. Collins frowned. Odd, she thought. She stroked his head to try to comfort him. He looked up at her, licked his lips and then returned his unflinching stare to the door.
“Yeah, I think he probably needs a walk right now from the sounds of him,” Emma said. She kissed Corporal Pethard tenderly for a moment which made Collins smile and Wood turn away, before she flounced off, leaving the dining room.
“I’ll catch up with you in a mo, babe,” he called after her retreating back as he finished his breakfast.
The corridor led from the dining hall down a small stair case and around a corner. There were military pictures on the walls, including a selection of World War Two airplanes and some old photos of pilots, many of whom had slick
ed back hair, arrogant expressions and, surprisingly enough, walking sticks, a reminder of the perils of their art back in those days.
The Pethards were in a room just along from Abbott. As Emma rounded the corner and neared her room she could see a figure hunched over and shaking on the floor. He was moaning with his head down as though he was vomiting. He wore light green khaki trousers but no top and he was covered in sweat. Emma took five more steps towards him before she paused. She called out to the figure. When Abbott looked up at her, his eyes were bloodshot and blazing in ungrounded fury and she felt her strength sapped away. She faltered, putting a hand on the wall to steady herself. He was hardly recognizable. He had a crazed look in his eyes and a long line of saliva hanging from his lips which drew back from his teeth like a dog. His face was contorted into a hideous grimace. The expression was bestial and held no hint of humanity.
She reached out a hand in a placatory gesture and spoke to him again in a shaky voice. “Are you okay? Can I get a doctor?”
This was clearly futile but she was trying to remain calm and act as though nothing was wrong. He started to rise to his feet and snarled a feral, wild sound that had no place coming from a human mouth. She tried to scream but the sound caught in her throat. The glass slipped from her fingers and smashed upon the floor as she turned. She fled in the only direction she could go, back the way she had come. She rounded the corner and the safety of the dining area beckoned, so close now, so tantalisingly close. He slipped in the turn giving her opportunity to get further ahead. She could hear the sound of conversation. Cujo was barking, dishes clattered, and there was the faint scent of food and normality. She neared the door, reaching her hand out. Only a few strides to go. He was too far to catch her. She was safe. She had almost made it and stretched for the handle just as her shirt was tugged back, just as Abbott caught up with her, just as he pulled her back and away from the door.
The Blood of the Infected (Book 1): Once Bitten, Twice Die Page 12