by RR Haywood
‘Everyone out,’ Howie says knowing the team will happily ignore the angry doctor.
‘Nick,’ Lilly stops short of hugging him, her eyes widening at the sight of his clothes and skin, ‘my god…are you okay?’
‘Me? Fine,’ he says quickly, ‘Lani’s hurt…they were…I mean Roy and Paula were doing resuscitation on her.’
‘You go,’ Lenski motions to the door, ‘go your rooms, I bring water and you wash…’
They file out in silence. Howie leading the way until they stand once again in the bright sunshine and warmth of the homely fort.
‘Maddox, we’ve got loads of ammunition…it’s in the Saxon and the van on the beach…’
‘Darius told me,’ Maddox holds a hand out to cut Howie off, ‘leave it with me. Go. Go wash.’
Howie inclines his head in a sharp gesture of understanding. Still together they skirt the middle busiest sections of the fort and walk round the inner perimeter towards their rooms. No speaking. Eyes watchful. Hands held ready to grip weapons.
‘Fluids first,’ Dave orders, ‘then wash and clean your weapons…then sleep.’
‘Dave,’ Cookey and the rest nod in affirmation.
‘You’ve all done well, very well,’ Dave adds to another quick glance from Nick.
‘Boss,’ Nick takes a step towards Howie.
‘I’ll do it, get washed,’ Dave says in his monotone voice. Nick drops his head and joins the others filing into the rooms.
‘Do what?’ Howie asks.
‘Marcy is back…’
Four
‘Fucking what?’ I blink in surprise as Dave delivers the news as deadpan as ever.
‘Marcy is back,’ he repeats.
‘Where? Back where? Here?’ I spin round as though expecting her to be behind me.
‘The survivors on the beach were told to tell Mr Howie or his group that she is by the houses on the beach. They told Nick. Nick told me.’
I don’t reply but take a deep intake of breath. Just me and Dave outside the rooms. The rest are inside already glugging water into parched throats.
Lani is dying in a hospital bed. The team are the most drained I have seen yet. The fort is filling up with people again. We’ve got doctors and ammunition. We’ve got people in the right roles, Maddox and Lenski.
And Marcy is back.
Marcy.
‘Okay,’ I nod at Dave and head inside the old armoury, the space given over for us to use.
‘Boss,’ Clarence passes me a cold bottle of water which is downed in one go. Sighs and burps from all around as the water is taken on too quickly.
‘Can I come in,’ Lilly calls from outside.
‘Yes,’ I call back and watch as she appears with a polite smile and nod while gripping a handful of yellow bin bags.
‘Sorry,’ she winces, ‘I’ve been told to collect your clothes so they can be burnt?’
‘Sure, leave them there,’ I nod at the table in the middle.
‘Is there anything you need?’ She asks the room.
‘Coffee,’ I mutter, ‘lots of coffee.’
‘Food,’ Nick offers a weak smile.
‘Sleep,’ Blowers says quietly.
‘Weapons first,’ Dave reminds everyone.
Buckets of soapy water are carried over along with a hose connected to clean cold water. A folding screen is propped up outside giving us some degree of privacy to wash instead of doing so in full view of the forts occupants.
The weapons are done quickly but competently. None of us needed to be reminded how much we reply on them.
Belts are checked. Pistols cleaned and filled with fresh magazines. The blades of our hand weapons are sprayed with water then scrubbed with anti-bac before being dried fully and re-sharpened.
Finally we file outside and drink coffee and eat food while stripping off to dump the ruined garments into the yellow bin bags.
We scrub and scrub. Arms and faces. Torsos, legs and heads. Everything is cleansed and as the filth comes off we realise just how battered and bruised our bodies are.
There is no banter. No jokes. Not even weak ones. Faces are worried and eyes constantly drift towards the hospital bay. Our team is down one member and we each of us feel it more keenly than ever.
Clean clothes are laid out. Combat trousers and tops washed and scrubbed until the camouflage material is faded.
The lads can hardly keep their eyes open but no one wants to break the spell of being together. Jagger and Mo Mo are with us now. Members of the team as much as anyone and they learn fast, adopting the mannerisms of the others. Paula and Roy stay close together.
‘Doc coming,’ Blowers nods behind us as we stand outside. We all turn to see Andrew Stone walking quickly towards us.
‘Right,’ he says and nods seriously, ‘Lani’s body has taken one hell of a beating but…like Roy said…she is healing far faster than anything I have ever seen. She is stable for now and…’
‘And what?’ I prompt him.
‘We don’t know,’ he shrugs, ‘she’s stable. Her heart rate is okay, she’s breathing on her own…whatever the thing is inside her is changing the physical way the body responds to trauma,’ he takes a breath before continuing, ‘to the extent that it has probably saved her life. We cannot detect any broken bones but then we don’t have any x-ray facility. Her lungs are clear and her heart is strong and that’s half the battle. The rest is down to her to heal. Until she comes round and tells us where it hurts there’s not a great deal we can do.’
‘At least she’s stable,’ Paula says, ‘that’s brilliant news.’
‘Yeah,’ Cookey says, ‘she’ll be alright now.’
‘Maybe,’ Andrew offers a wan smile, ‘early days but at this stage, yes…it’s looking okay but,’ he tilts his head as though to emphasise his point, ‘we do not know how she has changed or…well, until she wakes up and can tell us. The visible wounds are stitched and cleaned but…er, is anyone else hurt?’
‘Blowers got bit on the arm,’ Cookey says.
‘Snitch,’ Blowers replies quickly.
‘Let me see,’ Andrew takes Blowers offered arm and checks the bite marks, ‘does it hurt?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the skin has been punctured…broken through…open wound…did it bleed?’
‘Loads.’
‘Show him your knuckles,’ Clarence says.
Blowers turns his hands over to present his bruised and cut knuckles.
‘Old wounds?’ Andrew asks as through unsure why he’s being shown them.
‘Same time as the bite…same time as Lani got hurt,’ Blowers says quietly.
‘I see,’ Andrew mutters, ‘and…well. I er…bollocks, I have no idea what’s going on.’ He admits quickly, ‘these wounds are scabbed and healing. I would date the bite mark at two days at the least.’
‘Cookey got hurt too,’ Blowers says.
‘Show me,’ Andrew looks over the cuts and marks on Cookey’s arms, hands and face.
‘Right then, Howie is immune. Cookey and you,’ the doctor points at Blowers, ‘Lani and…anyone else?’ He looks round.
‘We don’t know,’ I say.
‘Hmmm, you’re all carriers then until we can prove otherwise. You are not to share any food, washing water, drinking water or anything that can transmit the disease by way of bodily fluids.’
‘Doc,’ I say softly, ‘we’ve been bleeding over each other for the best part of two weeks now.’
‘We have no idea what this infection is,’ Andrew says firmly, ‘and until we know you will…you must adhere to the basic principles of…’
‘We get it…and we’ve been around loads of people and no one has caught zombie from us yet.’
‘I understand that, Mr Howie but until we’re in a position to understand…’
‘Doc, sorry to keep cutting you off but they need sleep. Anything else?’
‘Er,’ he blanches slightly, ‘no…do you want updating with any changes?...right yes…’ he becom
es visibly nervous at the hard flat stares of the killers around him, ‘of course, yes…’
‘Weird bloke,’ Cookey says quietly as the doctor rushes away.
‘Him? Us more like,’ Blowers says, ‘I’m fucked…can we turn in?’
‘Go for it…oh hang on…’ They turn back with tired faces, ‘Nick was passed a message earlier,’ I say while Nick lifts his eyebrows in surprise, ‘Marcy is at the houses by the bay…she told some survivors to tell us.’
‘Fuck,’ Cookey says, ‘never rains does it.’
‘We going then?’ Blowers sighs but straightens up as though ready to move back out.
‘After we’ve slept.’
‘Thank fuck for that,’ Blowers sags again with a wan smile.
‘Sleep.’ The order isn’t needed and as one we head inside the walls of the old fort to our bare concrete bunkers and the space we call home.
Paula and Roy have rooms elsewhere. Jagger and Mo Mo were in the space reserved for the crews but we’ve been through too much together to be separated now. Everyone finds a bed or something soft and within minutes they’re all crashed out and falling into silence.
My mind spins for a few minutes. Thoughts of seeing Lani go down and the image in my head of Roy straddled across her body while doing chest compressions. Guilt mixed with despair. Guilt that I kissed Marcy in my dream and guilt from the sensation of my stomach flipping when I heard the message she passed. Despair that Lani almost laid down her life for mine.
There is another emotion mixed in with the guilt and despair. A feeling that has come from the fucked dreams I had and the things I saw. Not just the old man I carried out from the underground train station or the meeting with Lani, but watching the team argue and bicker. Seeing Blowers and Cookey fight with bare hands as they sought to cover the breach in the wall.
A sensation, no. A gripping icy hand that rips through every other feeling that I must have fortitude. That we’re at a turning point and right now is the time to make a decision. We can stay within the fort now. We have ammunition, weapons, doctors, medicines, fuel, people, skills and food.
We can focus on building a place of safety and refuge to protect our species so they may survive and continue our race.
The infection told me there can only be one race. The infection won’t allow us the peace to live quietly. It will mass and attack again and it won’t stop.
The thought of the infection making an undead drive the Saxon is terrifying. If it can do that what else can it achieve?
Staying here and hiding is not an option. We have to go out and meet this thing head on. We have to find Marcy and seek the answers for the answers will not just come to us.
The icy sensation within me is fortitude. That I must be equally as ruthless as the infection but retain the essence of humanity or else there is no point defeating it for we would be the same.
To be human is to laugh, cry, feel and react. Without that we are the hive mind pack of the undead. We are allowed to be angry and righteous for it’s those emotions that will see us through the worst times yet to come.
Fuck me, Blowers is immune. Cookey. Lani. Me and of course, Meredith. Too many thoughts, too many strands of thoughts all pushing off into different directions and my tired mind slowly sinks into the blissful state of oblivion.
Five
The devil sits on one shoulder, the angel on the other. In the middle rests the common sense of a mind that feels the equal pull of both. By the presence of both we have a balance of thought. The desire to achieve and get more is coupled with the conscience to do so decently. To act within the boundaries of the acceptable behaviours of our species.
We see evil. We feel evil. We see good. We are good.
One race.
One race to be born without the concepts of good or evil. With no devil. No angel. Just the purity of existence.
One race that can see the folly of humankind. A free mind is never truly free. The species is wrapped up in a plethora of differing rules that sculpt each mind depending on the factors around it.
False gods. False prophets. False ideals and beliefs. A society of lies spun so deep within us we cannot now, nor ever will be truly free.
One race.
Machines bleep in the quiet of the hospital bay. Run by diesel that powers the generators that give life to the machines that watch life.
The heartbeat is steady. The blood pressure recovers. The wounds were deep and life threatening but they healed, clotted, congealed and the body did what was needed to stem the loss of the vital fluids needed to function.
She lies still. Her chest rises with the breath taken in and lowers by the breath exhaled. Lisa Franklin stares down at the body and watches with a focus only a mind trained from years of study can bring to bear.
The wounds are bad, no. They were bad. The patient exhibits injuries that are days old but they only just happened. The area round the wounds should be bruising but they aren’t. The body should be weak from fighting infection of the open wounds but it isn’t weak.
The anti-biotics administered through the drip were stopped. An act done without the knowledge of the other doctors. Lisa Franklin simply twisted the valve on the tube and switched it off.
Nothing happened.
Nothing.
No change to heartbeat, pulse, temperature or breathing.
That was hours ago.
Once again she pulls the cover back to reveal the golden skin on the Thai girl’s shapely legs and once again she shakes her head at the laceration on the inner thigh. A deep laceration. A laceration that would require stitches. A laceration that would cause swelling in the surrounding soft tissue as the body reacted to protect the injury. A laceration that would see bruising in the skin.
Nothing.
A clean wound that does not require stitches and is not swollen and that is surrounded by normal coloured flesh of a golden hue without a trace of bruising.
She leans closer and uses an old fashioned magnifying glass to inspect the wound. The scabs are thick but different. They seem to be fusing with the living skin surrounding the wound. The scab is the protective layer that serves to guard the tender injury. In time, and as the wound heals, the scab comes away. This scab is not going to come away. This scab is part of the healing process.
Doctor Franklin checks the other wounds. Albeit they are not as serious as the thigh wound but still, the same process is underway.
If this were normal times. If this patient were a normal patient in a normal hospital then by now that hospital would be packed full of regional and national experts with international experts on route.
She would be isolated and subjected to every test known to modern medicine because what Lani is doing, or rather, what her body is doing, defies everything.
Outside the hospital the fort is alive with sound and motion. A riot of colours from the modern fabric worn by the survivors. Tents erected shelter some from the hot sun. Others stand and chat to new neighbours. Lilly strides through the middle with clipboard held firm in her hands. Lenski by the police offices sips from a bottle of water as she watches the ammunition brought over from the shore being carried through to be stacked deep within the walls of the fort.
Within the old armoury there is near silence. Clarence snores. Meredith whimpers in her sleep, her back legs twitching as she chases one of the things within her dream. An undead with many arms that all need to be taken and kept.
Blowers murmurs as he scratches at the bite mark on his arm that itches from healing. The scabs of dried blood fuse with the skin surrounding the wound.
Cookey sleeps peacefully. His own wounds healing as the body floods with the exact chemicals in the exact order needed to repair the damaged tissues, ligaments, tendons and muscles.
Doctor Franklin purses her lips and stands up with a low groan at the dull ache in her lower back from being bent over the patient for too long.
She lacks the knowledge to deal with this. All of the doctors do. They need bloo
d specialists, scientists versed in tropical diseases and virologists to even begin to understand what could be happening.
Yes she can take a blood sample and study it and possibly even work out a way of identifying something within the blood that is different to people who are not infected. But the variables are too great and the risks of getting it wrong are too much.
With a sigh she accepts she does not know what she is looking at. She can fix the limbs and injuries. She and the other doctors can do basic operations and administer medicines but that’s it.
But.
But she can sense something. A gut instinct that Lani is different to normal people but she is not infected in the way they have seen. The infection has changed her. Changed her ability to heal.
That would be the same for all the members of that team that have proven to be immune. Howie. Blowers and Cookey.
Are they carriers? Can their blood infect someone else? The only way to tell for sure would be to take Lani’s blood and physically put it into someone else’s and monitor the results.
She turns slowly to face the bed opposite from Lani. An old man with a weak heart lies dying. Too many days without his medication coupled with the constant fear and strenuous action of running have placed too great a burden on the already diseased organ within his chest.
She looks at his bare arms lying exposed at the sides of his body and takes a breath. What she is thinking is incomprehensible to a modern doctor within the Western world of medicine. It goes against everything she has ever sworn to do.
But that one act will give a huge amount of information. To take Lani’s blood and put it in the old man then wait to see if he becomes infected.
He’s out of it. Sedated by strong drugs that do their work to rid his body of pain until he expires.
He wouldn’t feel a thing. He would have no knowledge.
Barbaric? Yes. Essential? Also yes.
‘Lisa, please tell me you are not being serious?’ Doctor Carlton asks slowly. Twenty minutes since Lisa had the idea and around her stand the other three doctors with Maddox and Lenski.