by Terry Tyler
Twice.
Suzanne and Rosie fall, and are still.
The bodies on the ground look so small, so far away.
Two minutes later, two soldiers in protective clothing drive a cart through the gates, jump out and wrap the bodies in bags. One of them taps on the window of the kiosk; when the guard opens it, the soldier shoots him in the face. He then opens the side door, drags the body out and wraps it in a third bag. The two of them heave all three corpses into the cart and spray the entire area, including the inside of the kiosk, with a chemical solution.
Dex feels as though he's watching a piece of 'breaking news' on the TV. But he's not. He's involved.
Rosie was holding his son in her arms.
He calls the guard at Juno 2.
"A woman and a small boy are heading your way. Naomi Phillips and Phoenix Northam. Anyone having contact with them should be attired in Level A hazmat. Detain in quarantine apartment 1b for ten days, high risk. Repeat, high risk."
"Copy that."
He wonders if they will die. He doesn't know how he feels about that, at all. Not that it matters; there is nothing he can do about it.
He stares at a film for a while, drinking bourbon. He must not brood, he has stuff to do. In his bedroom, he selects luggage. Iceland. Greenland. A small holdall, Alex said, but he will need warm clothing, smart leisure clothes and more formal attire. That's okay; he can wear several layers to keep warm for the journey. Cram in a suit, jeans and a couple of shirts.
While he is sorting through his cupboards and drawers, he drinks wine. A cheeky little Bordeaux; he raises a glass to the Collections teams, for their superior scavenging. Dead though they may all be, soon, though Grimes remains amongst the living; there is hope.
"May you all be immune," he says, lifting it again, and realises that he is more than a little drunk. Bordeaux on top of the afternoon's bourbon. Still, if you can't get drunk at the end of the world, when can you? Not that it will be the end of his world. Like Verlander, he will come back to make good from the wreckage.
Maybe the Renova Group will assign him a position of greater control once they realise his potential, his understanding of people, which is far more advanced than Verlander's. There will be plenty of time for schmoozing, once he is there. He imagines cosy rooms, with wood panels and leather chairs. An underground gentlemen's club.
He puts down a pile of t-shirts, and lies back. He likes his bedroom, with its mellow lighting. Considering this will probably be his last night here, it would be nice if he had someone with whom to share it. Damn Storm for going. He could have kept her safe. Taken her to Greenland.
Damn Storm for making him think about her. His blanket of warm satisfaction ebbs away, to be replaced by irritation. He can't get Storm's smooth, taut limbs out of his head. That delectable little triangle, neatly shaved. Jerking off will not suffice; Dex needs a woman.
Which is why, when there is a knock on the door and he sees Libby the psychologist standing outside, swaying slightly and holding another bottle of the stores' best Bordeaux, he welcomes her in.
He reached out to the universe, and the universe provided.
He is not remotely attracted to Libby. She is short and dumpy, and Dex does not like his women overly-padded; the main reason he returned to Vicky when she turned up at Lindisfarne was that she had shed all her excess weight, and he badly wanted to fuck her again. But Vicky is pretty and sexy even when she needs to drop a stone or two, unlike Libby, who has a plain face, sturdy legs and droopy tits. She's the wrong side of forty-five, and the sag of her jowls must have started around her twenty-first birthday. Her dull brown hair is cut in a short, practical style. Mumsy, not sexy. That hint of moustache will have to go, if he is expected to kiss her. Or maybe another couple of glasses of wine will do the trick. What the hell, it's not like he's overwhelmed with options. The far more appealing Cheryl is on the next floor, but although he is fairly sure of a result he would have to woo her first, and he really can't be bothered. Libby, on the other hand, has turned up ready for action. She wears perfume that reminds him of Vicky, a silky kimono and a bra that makes her tits look better than usual.
"I'm bored. D'you fancy some company?" she says. "I hate being shut up; I went down to the Supplies Zone earlier because I wanted something new to read but I left without choosing anything; you never know, do you, you could touch a book, and—"
He pulls her in and shuts the door. Doesn't want anyone to see her, and think she's the best he can do for himself.
When she moves into the lamplight her kimono falls open, and his eyes fall on her tits spilling over the top of the black, lacy lingerie.
"You look as though you're about to go to bed," he says, and pours them both a glass from his already open bottle.
She puts her head on one side, a coquettish pose that looks faintly ridiculous on a woman of her type. "Well, I was going to curl up in bed all on my own, but I felt restless, you know? I wanted someone to talk to."
Dex knocks back his wine, sits down and refills his glass. "Talk away."
"Okay!" She plonks herself down on the sofa in a rather ungainly fashion, and her kimono falls open, just slightly.
She is wearing black hold-ups.
"Drink up," Dex says.
She does so; he pours her another. She begins to talk, but he isn't listening. Instead, he watches her stretch her legs out. In the stockings, they look better. She doesn't stop chatting, but slowly, slowly, reveals more of those black stockings. He smiles. She's good at this. He respects an understanding of the game, any game. So he responds to her chatter, and keeps staring at her legs. It's working; he's getting hard. Right. Enough foreplay.
"Shall we go and fuck, then?"
"I thought you'd never ask." She stands up and slips off her kimono. The lingerie turns out to be a black, lace-up basque with matching briefs. For a fleeting moment he wonders why anyone would bother to seek out such garments in a post-apocalyptic world, but answers the question himself: they're her ticket to getting laid. And boy, does this woman want to get laid. Once in the bedroom, he discovers that Libby the homely psychologist has more tricks up her sleeve than any woman he has ever had, and he is amused by a recollection of something Wedge said, once, when they were selecting their women in Club Trop.
"Go for an ugly lass. They're always the best shags 'cause they know they have to try harder."
Libby sucks his dick like he's never had it sucked before, taking him to the brink then stopping, over and over, until he pushes her head down on it, rams it down her throat. She goes on top, she likes it doggy style, she makes herself come so that he doesn't have to bother and, best of all, she doesn't expect him to go down on her.
She's his sort of woman. Just for the night.
During intermissions they finish his wine, then her bottle, then start on his bourbon, and she produces a couple of joints of some excellent weed.
"From a secret corner of the Grow Zone!"
By around four in the morning his entire body is numb with her ministrations and he wants her to go home, because he does not like sharing his bed with casual lays. Sex isn't personal; sleeping is. She's already curling up, though; hey, whatever. He might want his dick sucked again, come the morning. Just the thing to set him up for the journey into the Arctic Circle. Best of all, he does not think she has been invited to fly to Greenland with Air Verlander; surely she would have mentioned it?
They sleep.
Dex wakes around nine, and panics. He looks outside; the wind has dropped, though the sky is overcast. Maybe Verlander has already organised Plan Exit. Should he find out, or wait to be summoned?
He lurches up; fuck, his head hurts. And he stinks, of sweat, sex and booze. He needs coffee, yesterday; he sits on the side of the bed, more hungover than he can remember being for a long, long time.
A shame Libby's talents don't run to getting up and making coffee before he wakes.
He turns.
She is lying on her back with her mouth
open, quietly snoring. He leans across, to wake her. Jesus, her breath stinks. He definitely isn't putting his dick in that. Then again, he doubts he could even get it up for Storm, right now.
"Hey." He pushes her, and she stirs, opens her eyes.
"Hi," she croaks. "I feel like shit. Got'ny coffee?"
What does she think this is? "You make it. I need to shower."
He stands up, but she doesn't move.
"Go on. It's on the worktop; instant will do."
Still she doesn't move. "I feel terrible, Dex."
"Yeah, so do I. Get the coffee. Andrews and paracetamol in the drawer."
"No, I mean I feel really terrible. I'm getting too old for this."
For the first time, he looks at her properly. Her face is flushed, covered in a film of sweat. Her eyes look rheumy, and she's shivering.
Sweating and shivering, at the same time.
He reaches for his t-shirt and holds it over his nose and mouth, leans in and touches her forehead.
She smiles up at him; stupid cow thinks he's doing so because he cares.
It's burning hot.
He leaps back as though his hand is scalded, and in that moment he knows that the t-shirt over his face will not protect him. He leaps up, runs into the bathroom, washes his hands with antibacterial soap—and realises the futility of that, too. Last night, he spent hours and hours becoming closely acquainted with every nook and cranny of her disgusting, diseased body.
He stares at her from the doorway.
"Get out," he snarls at her. "Get out of this fucking flat now."
She stares, bewildered. "Wh-what?"
Shaking with panic, he rummages through his drawers for a scarf, ties it around his nose and mouth (it can't hurt), rummages again for gloves, socks, jogging bottoms, a long sleeved t-shirt to make sure his skin will touch no part of her, then dives over to the bed and pulls her out by her arm.
"What the fuck are you doing? Dex! Stop it, you're hurting me!"
He pushes her towards the door and she cries out in pain as her foul body, naked apart from the basque, slams into the wall. He grabs up her clothes as she stumbles, and kicks her into the living room as hard as he can, because he hates her, wants to kill her. She lurches, staggers, her fearful sobs leaving him unmoved as he boots her saggy, cellulite-ridden arse with the sole of his foot—she falls, and she's on her hands and knees but he keeps kicking her, kicking her, out into the hall. She's heaving herself up to get away from him, but not fast enough; her face makes contact with the door with his final push, and he hears something crack, but he doesn't care, he wrenches her arm so hard that he wonders, somewhere in the back of his mind, if he's actually pulled it out of its socket, and as he opens the door she's howling with pain but he couldn't give a damn, he just wants her out out out.
He hurls her clothes down the corridor, pushes the filthy, revolting, weeping woman out after them, so hard that she bangs into the opposite wall, and he slams the door behind her.
She is wailing outside, hammering on the door, yelling about some item that's still in his flat, but he ignores her.
He sinks to the floor, and gulps huge breaths of air.
Stop.
He stops.
Even if she has it (and she has, he knows she has), there is nothing to say that he's caught it. He could be immune. Grimes is still well. He thinks back to Lindisfarne. Heath, Jax, Ozzy. Ruby, Will. Luke. Gareth. That little turd Jonas. All immune.
Fuck it. He is not getting it. He won't get it. The world needs him. He can't die, it can't be over.
He opens every window in the flat, strips, showers, rips off the stinking bedclothes, throws everything that touched her vile skin into bin liners, and chucks them out of the window. He erases all trace of her and the work makes him hot, sweating, but of course he's touched things that she touched so he showers again, brushes his teeth until his gums hurt, swills with mouthwash, shaves, gets out his bag that he was packing last night and finishes the task. He makes coffee, takes paracetamol, gulps Andrews Liver Salts, eats flapjack, takes vitamins, makes more coffee, drinks water, and finally he sits.
He'll give it half an hour, then speak to Verlander.
He's wears only his boxer shorts, and he's sweating, even though the windows are open, but of course he's been charging about the place, taken two hot showers.
It's okay. His heart is thudding because he's panicking, that's all, and because of the amount he drank last night, and he smoked, too, a spliff—ugh! He runs to the bathroom and swills his mouth with Listerine once more.
He feels fine. He doesn't feel ill. It's good. It's over twelve hours since she came round, and he feels fine.
It's okay. Dex, it's okay.
He sits in a chair; can't lie on the sofa, because that was where she lay. He's so tired. Not surprising, he only had about four hours’ sleep last night; he'll shut his eyes for twenty minutes, get dressed, find Verlander. And he won't say a word about Libby.
Fucking ugly, diseased whore.
He sleeps.
The dream is vivid. He's by a water mill, outside a house in Cornwall where he went on holiday, years ago. He's thirsty, he wants to drink, but he can't reach the water, and the mill wheel is making such a fucking racket as it goes round, round and round and round—
He wakes. He's still thirsty and hot, and he can't work out why the noise of the mill wheel hasn't ceased, but there it goes, round and round, judder judder judder—
It's not the mill wheel. It's helicopter blades.
It's the fucking helicopter.
It's here.
Fuck!
Verlander must have knocked on the door when he had the shower running full blast, he didn't hear him, he's missed him—
Dex leaps up, pulls on the pale grey jogging bottoms he'd planned to travel in, grabs his door keys—shit, but his bladder is bursting, it's so full it's painful. He dashes back into the bathroom and oh God damn it, come on, he doesn't need bloody post-boozing pee retention, not now—hurry hurry hurry, but he can't make himself go—come out come out come out—he turns on the tap, thinks about waterfalls, swishing, falling water, and yes yes yes, here it comes, ahhh the relief the relief, and he shoves his dick back in without bothering to shake—fuck it, where's his access card to open the door to the roof—where the fuck is it? It's okay, it's okay, there it is, on the table, and he runs out, barefoot, down the corridor that leads to the roof—but the fucking lift isn't working, okay, okay, up the stairs, four fucking flights, and he's short of breath, his chest is heavy, his bare feet hurt on the cold metal steps and he can feel sweat trickling down his bare back, but he's got to push himself up, hurry, hurry, because he's got to tell them to wait five minutes, he's got his bag packed, he'll be there in just a tick—
He swipes his card and bursts out into the daylight, onto the roof, and they're already climbing onto that beautiful bird that will take him to safety, to his future, to his life.
He sees Barney, Chester, Cheryl, Doctors Porter and Carson, and Alex Verlander, who is last to board.
"Hey! Alex!"
Verlander turns.
"Not a step closer!"
Everyone is staring at him.
What the—?
Dex looks to his right, to his left; two guards have guns on him.
"Stand well back," one of them shouts. "Do not move."
The fuck?
"Alex—I'm on this flight, right? Sorry, I just overslept, and—"
"Not happening, mate, sorry."
Dex's mouth falls open. "What the fuck? You told me, yesterday!" He takes a step forward. "I've got my bag packed, I'm ready to go—you're not leaving me here!"
"Back!" The guns move closer. "Back now, right back!"
The wind whips his hair around his face. He shivers; he feels foolish, standing there barefoot and naked to the waist.
He looks straight at Verlander, and hears the pain in his voice as he shouts out. "Why?"
Verlander is smiling. That bleached w
hite, plastic fucking smile. "I've kept an eye on everyone over the last twenty-four hours. Can't have any contamination risks, not when we're packed in here like sardines!"
"But I'm fine, I haven't been out—"
"Come on, Dexter, I have eyes everywhere, you know that!" He climbs aboard, and leans out. He's not just smiling, he's laughing. "Old Libby's a goer, though, ain't she; who'd have thought? We had to put her down, of course, but at least she went out with a bang!"
Dex sees Barney whisper something to him, and they both convulse with mirth.
Verlander pops his head out again.
"Barney's just reminded me: it's the first of April—hey, look on the bright side, you might be immune!"
He's still laughing as the door is slammed shut. The blades begin to whirr, round and round, and Dex watches Verlander's stupid, grinning face sharing the joke with his fellow travellers, until the bird is high in the sky, so high that he can no longer see them.
He is scarcely aware of the journey back to his flat; on the way he falls against the wall, several times, slams his fists against it, yelling out his anger, his frustration, his hopelessness.
In the flat he finds bourbon, and swigs straight from the bottle. It tastes disgusting. Metallic, vile, like he remembers whisky tasting long ago, when he was a young man and tried to drink his way through bronchitis.
He shivers. He's cold.
He pulls on a hooded sweatshirt, creeps to the window and looks out.
The flat is filled with disease. If he stays in here, he will die.
There is nowhere to go, nowhere he has to be, nobody to see, but he has to get out.
He shoves his feet into trainers, leaves the apartment and makes his way down the path to the security gate that stops the worker bees entering Hub Residential.
The guard lets him through, and shouts something about the helicopter. Has Mr Verlander gone?
Dex ignores him and carries on walking down the road, past the main Juno Complex. Naomi and Phoenix are further on, in Juno 2. He doesn't care. Doesn't want to see them.