“It's okay… I'll find you on Facebook..." he heard her shout, as the door to the stairwell banged shut behind him.
Sam left the bright reception and stepped outside. The first light of dawn was breaking through the darkness. The coach waited as promised, the luggage compartment already full of suitcases. He added his bag to the pile and stepped up onto the coach.
He looked around for his mates, and doubt filled him until he spied them at the back. Excitement lit up his face.
“Oi, lads, guess what? I only went and fucked myself a virgin last night! Ha,” he shouted, ignoring the tuts from the other passengers.
“What the fuck, man?” Dean exclaimed in astonishment. “Trev died last night, and you’re bragging about fucking a virgin. What's wrong with you?”
“What the fuck do you mean Trev is dead? What the fuck happened?” asked Sam.
“After you fucked off with that bird, we went to a club,” Dean explained, “but it was empty, literally no fucker there. We waited around for a bit to see if it would pick up, but it didn't. So about three, we decided to call it a night. We were walking back to the hotel and saw this fit as fuck Spanish girl, sat on the pavement, moaning. Like she was in pain or summat. Trev went up to her and checked to see if she was okay, and she bit him. Fucking bitch bit him on his fucking cheek. Tore a massive hole out of his cheek, she did. It was fucked up, man.” He paused and pretended to clear his throat, while choking back a sob.
“Me and the others ran over to him, to see if he was okay, but then hundreds of locals came running at us, shouting, so we fucked off. Only, when I looked back, I saw Trev wasn't with us.
The locals were kicking him in the head. It was fucking brutal, there were too many of them. We couldn't go back; we just couldn't help him,” the words spilt out followed by a loud sob.
Sam listened in stunned silence. It couldn’t be real. He looked expectantly at Dean, waiting for him to laugh and tell him he was winding him up. Any minute now, Trev would jump on the coach and they would all have a laugh at Sam’s expense. Instead, the tears fell down his friend’s face. Dean crying freely was enough to convince Sam.
“Holy shit, so what did you do?” he asked.
Dean swallowed, “Well we hid, didn't we? Only thing we could do, mate. When they’d gone, we went over to help Trev, but he was dead. His head was… well, it was smashed to a pulp, no one could survive that. Could they?” Dean didn’t wait for Sam to respond.
“We ran back here, raised holy hell at reception and got them to call the cops. Only the cops didn't answer. We were all properly kicking off at the receptionist. Then the rep came in and told us we had to be evacuated straightaway.”
Sam nodded slowly, “Fuck … That’s mental. Poor Trev.”
“We reckon that girl had that Black Flu virus thing and the locals were just jumping on the bandwagon with the looting, the rioting, you know, like what happened in Germany?’
Sam nodded again, despite the fact he hadn’t paid attention to the news in months. “Fuck …” he repeated, not knowing what else to say. He had only met Trev on the day they’d flown out, but he’d seemed nice enough. What a horrible way to die.
Sam had not had an easy upbringing. Expressing feelings had been actively discouraged, and now he lacked the emotional intelligence to offer any support or comfort to his friend. Instead, he turned and leant his head against the cool glass of the window. He couldn't take it in, couldn’t digest the events of the morning. What the fuck was going on?
A loud bang against the side of the coach made him jump. He noticed for the first time the large group of people on the streets. There was something about them, something odd. They were stumbling along the pavements as if they were drunk.
In the early morning light, they all looked dirty, as though they’d rolled around in mud.
He stared intently at them, trying to figure out what was on their clothes. He caught the eye of a woman who seemed to be staring back at him.
Her mouth hung open, saliva dripping from her tongue. It wasn’t yet light enough to see clearly, but he could have sworn that she was the fit woman he’d seen in the bar the previous night. There was something different about her. Last night she was stunning. Her hair was glossy, her makeup impeccably applied. Now, her hair hung limp and greasy. Her red lipstick looked like she’d put it on during a particularly bumpy car ride. It coated the sides of her lips unevenly, giving an almost clown-like appearance.
He looked closer, pressing his nose against the window, and realised with shock that it was not lipstick, but blood. As he watched, the woman got knocked to the ground by the swarming crowd, and he lost sight of her.
In a bid to get away, the coach driver slammed his foot on the accelerator, and Sam was thrown back in his seat.
A woman towards the front yelped as her head hit the window. But it worked, and they soon left the crazed group behind them.
The rest of the drive was smooth, and Sam allowed the tension to ease from him. Eventually, they pulled into the airport. They were met by a man wearing a smart suit. He seemed harassed and distracted as he hurried them off the coach. When everyone had disembarked, he coughed loudly.
“Kevin Jenkins,” he announced, “I am from the British embassy here in Spain. We are evacuating all tourists from this area, please follow me. Leave your luggage in the coach. It will be transported later.”
Everyone immediately started talking and moaning at once, but did as instructed, and followed him.
He continued to talk as they entered the empty airport. “We have secured a British Airways aircraft and crew for your journey. You are the last group to arrive for this flight. On this occasion, we will be bypassing check-in and security. I will be checking your names and passports as you embark.”
“Er, Kev …?’ Dean called from the back of the group.
“It's Kevin, and what do you want? I do not have time for questions.”
“It's not a question … well not really, er Kevin, but my mate, see, my mate was bitten last night, and then a load of locals kicked him and he … well … you know … like … died. Shouldn't we be, like, bringing his body home or summat?”
Kevin stopped walking and turned back towards the group, his eyes searching for the person that had spoken, “Bitten you say? No, I’m afraid we won't be bringing his body with us.”
He seemed about to add something, but instead spun around and carried on walking.
Sam stared at his retreating back. It seemed wrong that they weren’t taking Trev’s body home with them. What was that bloke not saying?
Realising he was being left behind, he jogged to catch up with the group. They were ushered straight through the unmanned security scanners, out to the gate and straight on to the airport concourse. All without checking in, no one had an allocated seat, and chaos ensued as they boarded the plane. Sam chose a seat next to Dean. He strapped himself in and leant his head back against the headrest. His head was thumping with the after-effects of the alcohol consumed the previous evening.
“Oi, mate, you got any paracetamol? This fucking hangover is killing me,” Sam called across the aisle to Ian, oblivious to Dean flinching at the insensitivity of his words.
“Yeah, hang on.” Ian, the most organised of the group, rummaged around in his bag, found the paracetamol and threw the silver foil packet over to Sam.
“Cheers,” Sam said, catching the paracetamol, popping two out and dry swallowing them. He settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. His last thought before drifting off to sleep was not of his friend Trevor. Nor of the rushed evacuation from Alicante. Instead, it was of the bragging rights he could now claim because he had fucked a virgin.
Two
I stare up at the ceiling, willing myself to find the motivation to get out of bed and start the day. The morning ritual plays itself out. The internal debate of comfort versus caffeine circles in my head. As usual, the lure of a hot cup of coffee wins out, and I push myself out of bed and head downstairs. I
wrapped myself tightly in my big fluffy dressing gown. I may be out of bed, but I’m not getting dressed until I’ve had a drink.
Steve is in the lounge, performing various uncomfortable-looking stretches. His dark brown hair shines with the sweat that is also forming in beads on his forehead.
“Been for a run?” I ask, rather pointlessly. The sweat, the running shorts and stretching are all the clues I need. He grunts at me as I walk past him into the kitchen.
Filling the kettle, then flicking it on, I lean back against the counter and watch him through the double doors that open into the lounge.
If I’m honest with myself, I’m a little jealous of the way he can get out of bed as soon as he wakes up, and run five miles before I’ve even stirred. The contrast between us is stark. To say I am not a morning person is somewhat of an understatement. I hit the snooze button on the alarm several times before I even think about getting up. Steve, on the other hand, jumps out of bed before his alarm has even dared to sound. He seems to think that his ways will rub off on me, that it’s only a matter of time and I'll be running alongside him at the crack of dawn. He is wrong.
The sound of the water boiling shakes me out of my daydream. “Coffee?” I shout into the other room. Hearing a grunt in return, I decide to take that as an affirmative, and make two cups.
The lounge is empty by the time I carry the steaming mugs through, and I can hear the shower going upstairs. I plop down on the armchair and dangle my legs over the arm. Mornings are the only time I ever sit like this. Mug in one hand, tablet in the other, squashed into the chair. It’s the perfect position for catching up on the events of the world. By the world, I mean my friends, by events, I mean Facebook posts.
I scroll idly through the photographs from drunken Saturday night antics, funny memes and the usual click bait rubbish. There are a few posts that catch my eye. Something must be happening in Spain. Quite a few of my friends sending their prayers and thoughts to the injured. As usual with Facebook, an outpouring of empathy, but little content about what has happened.
My restless curiosity, a term that I prefer to inherent nosiness, gets the better of me. I switch on the TV and turn on the news.
“… and headaches. There is no known cure,” states the news anchor. “In other news, George Carlton, CEO of Hillcrofts Ltd, yesterday announced that he is injecting funds to rescue the floundering J.P. Plants. Preventing the company going into receivership will save over three thousand jobs. In a statement made last night, Mr Carlton said that when the Prime Minister contacted him to propose the deal, he knew that it was in the best interest of the public. It would support the future of the North West, an area he considers to be his second home. Employees are hailing Mr Carlton as a saint and calling for a knighthood."
I laugh out loud at this. George Carlton a saint? What a joke. I’ve worked for the man as his personal assistant for over ten years.
The only thing he is interested in is himself.
As for calling the North West his second home, it was only last week that he moaned about the disgusting, dirty towns, overcrowded with drunks and degenerates.
I return to scrolling through Facebook, waiting for news of Spain to come back on. Steve joins me in the lounge and takes his usual spot on the sofa. He occupies himself syncing his GPS to his phone to record this morning’s run.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table next to me. I stretch forward to pick it up. There is a text from Sally, George’s daughter.
I’m safe, on plane home x
That’s odd. I haven’t spoken to Sally since she went on holiday a few days ago. I ignore the text, assuming it was meant for her dad. I turn my attention back to the news.
“… now, a reminder of today’s headlines. There has been an outbreak of the Black Flu in the popular tourist destination of Alicante. The British Embassy is arranging emergency transport for all UK citizens currently in Alicante and surrounding areas.”
I immediately pick my phone up again, Sally’s text making sense now. She’s on holiday in Alicante. Bless her; she knew that I would be worried if I saw the news.
“…like the outbreak in Germany, official sources have confirmed that there is widespread rioting.” The image on the screen changes from the newsroom to the scene in Spain. Mobs of people, throwing bricks and bottles at shop windows. Smoke rises from a building. Crowds of people seem to be fighting each other.
“Fucking pricks,” I say to Steve, “Have you seen these morons?”
Steve looks up at the television, “They’re just taking advantage of the situation, I bet half of them are pissed-up Brits on tour,” he laughs.
“We have Dr David Smeadly from the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control here with us now. So, Dr Smeadly, all the outbreaks so far have resulted in riots and violence. Is this a coincidence, or is this somehow related to the Black Flu?”
The doctor looks a little taken aback by the question, and he pauses a second before replying, “ZN-134 is a particularly nasty strain of the flu virus. There is no known cure and as far as we have seen, it is one hundred percent fatal. My specialism is in diseases, not human behaviour. However, I would suggest when there is an outbreak of this nature, people get scared and react. I suspect the residents are just responding to the situation, spurred on by opportunists.” He pauses and looks directly into the camera, “There is absolutely no medical or scientific link between the virus and the violence.”
A flicker of a reaction crosses the news anchor's face, his cheeks appearing to flush slightly.
He pauses, seems to consider the next question, then swallows, “Rumours have been spreading, since the BBC news report that went viral a few weeks ago, that those who have died from the virus are rising and attacking people.” He ignores the doctor’s stunned expression, and continues, “Some have said that the infected are acting like Zombies.” He leaves the words hanging, silence filling the studio. Then he stands up and walks towards the camera. "To all the viewers out there, they’re hiding it, don’t believe what you hear. This is far worse than you are being told, take precautions, st…”
The TV goes blank. I stare at it for a moment until a technical difficulties message appears on the screen.
“What the hell was that?” I gasp at Steve with a glance in his direction. I’m sure I see him frown, but when he looks back at me, he is grinning.
“Ooooohhhh the dead are walking the earth, oooooohhhhh the zombies are gonna get youuuuu,” he says mockingly.
“Dick,” I reply.
“It’s a joke, Clo; there’s nothing to worry about,” he says reassuringly.
He knows that I am a little obsessed with zombies. I read a lot, and my favourite genre is post-apocalyptic, specifically zombie apocalypse. Or zompoc, as I prefer to call it, just to wind him up. He hates the way everyone talks now, where everything just has to be abbreviated. I’ve known him block people from Facebook for overuse of LOL and OMG.
I consider what he said, and the reasonable part of my mind does know that zombies are just fiction. There are so many biological reasons why zombies cannot and do not exist.
My enjoyment of reading the genre is driven by the fascination of what could happen to a society when faced with a ruthless enemy, and left without rules and control.
This is the reason I don’t join in with the online forums that discuss, in detail, what to do in a zombie apocalypse. My preference is of the character-led books, ordinary people becoming heroes and saving the day.
So why was the TV still showing an error message? It's unlikely that a problem occurred at the exact same time as the anchor clearly going off-script. Once again, my natural curiosity drives me to flick through other channels, keen to find more references to the Black Flu.
I’m left disappointed as the other channels just show the usual Sunday morning programming. A mix of religious debates, cooking shows and re-runs of old American sitcoms.
I land back on the news channel and feel oddly comforted when I see th
e weather report now on the screen.
The weatherman looks relaxed and happy, as though delighted that he has the privilege to be the one sharing that fantastic news that the coming days will be hot and sunny.
“I’m going to jump in the shower,” I tell Steve, who’s gone back to looking at the stats from his morning run. I don’t catch what he mumbles in response.
Shutting the bathroom door behind me, I drop my dressing gown in a messy heap on the floor. I turn on the shower to let the water heat up and then, just as I do every morning, I spend a few minutes staring critically at my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I’m thirty-four, and I guess not having had children, my body isn’t bad for my age and sedentary lifestyle.
Although, I pinch a roll of skin on my stomach, and suspect the firmness of youth is gradually disappearing.
I flex my biceps, and I’m pleased to see that my arms haven’t developed bingo wings overnight. That day will come and, just as I do every morning, I make a mental note to myself to find and join a gym. But just like every morning, the thought is soon forgotten as I step into the steaming hot shower and feel the hot needles beating down on my skin. I lather shower gel all over my body, then leave the hot water to rinse that off as I get to work on shampooing and conditioning my long hair.
It’s over an hour later when I come back downstairs, my hair now dry and straightened, and make-up applied. “Anything else on the news about the Black Flu?” I ask casually.
“Dunno,” Steve replies, “I may have drifted off for a minute there, the zombie apocalypse could come and go in the time it takes you to get ready.”
“Haha,” I reply caustically, throwing a nearby cushion at him, and cursing as I miss by at least three feet.
“If the dead are walking the earth, you might as well just give up straightaway, with an aim like that,” Steve says, grabbing the cushion and throwing it back at me, where it hits me squarely on the head. “I reckon I’ll be alright, though,” he laughs.
Safe Zone (Book 1): The Greater Good Page 2