Mutation (Wildfire Chronicles Vol. 4)

by Griffiths, K. R.

  And Jason.

  The loss of Jason ached like a fracture, and the more she thought about her baby brother, and how ill-equipped he had been to deal with the way the world was now despite his hulking physique, she felt a magnetic sort of sadness settle on her, and drag her down toward a deep depression.

  There was no room for that in the world now, and Rachel knew it. Knew that Jason had died to protect her, and that if she let herself fade away into self-pity she would turn that gift into something toxic.

  She stood, shaking away the pain of the uncomfortable night’s sleep, and looked around the rest of them, still soundly asleep and some distance away from waking up to the same bone-deep ache she had encountered.

  She glanced at the door, and for a moment she stood, debating with herself.

  John and Michael would insist that she stay in the tower, obviously. That she wait until they were awake before she ventured outside. So that they could keep her safe.

  They hadn’t done a great job of that so far, she thought bitterly, and then admonished herself. They had tried: both had done their best, but the situation was beyond anyone’s control.

  And besides, since when did you sit around waiting for a man to protect you, Rach? Who protected you from Victor?

  The voice in her head sounded a lot like Jason, and her eyes shimmered with heavy tears.

  Rachel pressed her lips together firmly and pushed the door open, stepping out into the cold morning.

  Most of the castle was open to the elements. Only the towers provided any shelter from the weather. The rest of the building’s huge footprint consisted of manicured gardens and the occasional ancient piece of machinery that had been part of the building’s life when it had been a tourist attraction, displayed for people to marvel at, back when humanity had time for such trivialities.

  Barely more than a week ago.

  The whole place was wrapped in a thick stone wall, into which were set heavy doors that led to tiny rooms that Rachel surmised must have served as cells once; and bare stone steps that led up to the battlements.

  The castle was a hive of activity: several women were in the process of tearing out the flower beds and planting what Rachel presumed were vegetables. Others were tending to a large pot that sat over a fire. A handful of men were struggling with wooden beams, putting together the skeleton of what would be a large wooden building that would take up around half the courtyard once built.

  Rachel gathered her thin jacket about her and shivered, though she could not be sure whether that was due to the cold, or the finality of the work she saw being undertaken around her. The people in the castle were building a community that they obviously believed would have to stand for a considerable period of time.

  She hadn’t had much opportunity to think about the future: the hours since she first stumbled across the virus, hosted in the once-friendly body of her family’s pet dog, had been spent running for her life, or being tortured, or killing.

  The battle with Sniffer seemed a lifetime ago; like it had happened to a different person. That much was true, Rachel thought glumly. She certainly didn't feel anything like the Rachel Roberts who had had stepped off the train at St. Davids worrying about how her parents might react to her losing another job.

  “Sleep well?”

  Rachel jumped a little. She hadn’t seen Darren sidling up beside her.

  She ignored the question, and wondered briefly if she would ever have a use for small talk again. If the world would, come to think of it.

  “Looks like you’re preparing the place for a long stay,” she said.

  Darren nodded, his expression sombre.

  “You could say that. I don’t really know what happened, but it’s been over a week. If there were people out there, government or army or whatever, I’d say we’d have seen them by now.”

  Rachel dropped her eyes to the floor.

  So it is the same everywhere. Of course, she had known it must be. But there was a difference between knowing something, and seeing it.

  “Did you see it happen, how it all started?” Darren said, and the eager look on his face made something in Rachel squirm.

  “I didn’t see anything,” she said bluntly. “There was nothing to see. Just normality one minute and chaos the next. I’ve seen that. Over and over again.”

  “I don’t even know when it started, really, other than what I’ve been told,” Darren said almost wistfully. “I was in the mountains. Everywhere was…like this when I came back down.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  Ah, there it was. Just as the word lucky reached his ears, a crack in the friendly façade. She saw Darren’s eyes narrow a little, just enough to tell her that whatever the man might say, he’d seen plenty too.

  “Lucky,” he repeated flatly, as if the word was somehow unfamiliar to him.

  “To have found the castle,” Rachel said, and without another word she turned, and strode back into the tower.

  *

  “I’ve got no time for liars,” Rachel hissed.

  When she had returned to the tower, Michael was already awake. The others looked to be slowly circling consciousness, approaching it reluctantly. Rachel didn't blame them for that.

  Michael shot a glance at the door as she spoke.

  “Keep your voice down,” he whispered. “So the guy doesn’t want to talk about it. Do you? I know I don’t. If he wanted to harm us he would have done it already. We wouldn’t be able to stop him. They outnumber us, and that’s before you take the fact that only two of us could actually fight into the equation. If he was going to do anything, it would have been last night, wouldn’t it?”

  Count to ten, Rach.

  Rachel breathed deeply.

  “He can’t be trusted, Michael. You do see that?”

  Michael sighed, and glanced at Claire. Still asleep.

  “I see it, Rachel. Of course I see it. He’s hiding something from us, big deal. So did John. So have…a lot of people. Nobody trusts anybody and I don't blame them. When whatever that guy is hiding becomes a danger to me or Claire…or any of you, I’ll do something about. Right now his act seems a lot less dangerous than being out there with them. The best we can do is wait and see, okay?”

  “I wasn’t asking for your help or your permission to do anything, Michael, and the next time you condescend to me…”

  Michael flinched at the unbridled aggression in her tone, and Rachel caught herself, just before the rage took over.

  She breathed deeply again; letting the air out slowly, allowing it to leak from her lungs. Her heart was hammering. She looked away from Michael and locked eyes with Gwyneth. The old woman looked exhausted, like she had spent the night battling demons. She had problems of her own.

  We all do, Rachel thought, and felt the fire that had erupted in her nerves slowly being extinguished.

  “Fine,” she said, and rose to her feet. “But I’m watching him, and you should too. Everybody should. I’m going to find something to eat.”

  With that, Rachel turned and marched out of the tower, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her.

  It was only as she left the tower and followed her nose to the fire and pots of something that smelled delicious cooking over the flames that Rachel’s temper cooled enough to allow Michael’s words to sink in.

  I’ll do something about it, Michael had said.

  I’ll.

  Rachel stalked toward the fire, lost in thought.

  She slumped down heavily next to the flames, and a young woman stirring a large pot of what looked like vegetable soup.

  The woman looked about the same age as Rachel. In another time they might have made small talk about the weather, or fashion, or whatever topic was dominating the news. Probably they wouldn’t have talked at all.

  But the world had changed.

  “Is it safe here?” Rachel asked bluntly.

  The young woman dropped her eyes to the pot, and Rachel knew even before she opened her mouth. Even before
she whispered the words.

  “Please help us.”

  *

  “Please help us,” Michael repeated. “What do you think she meant?”

  Rachel’s brow furrowed. Once again she had returned to the tower, and once again Michael was frustrating the hell out of her.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Have you actually looked at the people here, Michael?”

  Michael glared at her.

  “Of course, and what about them?”

  “There are twenty three that I’ve seen. Seven men. A couple of them just young boys. Sixteen women. Most of them young, all of them scared to death. Nothing about that strikes you as a little odd?”

  To her right, Rachel saw John’s jaw clench.

  At least John sees it.

  “When she said ‘us’, she meant the women. Please help the women.”

  Michael’s gaze dropped to his useless legs.

  “You’re sure?”

  Rachel crossed her arms and glared at him.

  Michael’s head dropped.

  “Christ,” he said.

  “Most of the men are carrying weapons,” Rachel said grimly. “They’ve all got blades on their belts. I haven’t seen any guns. I haven't seen a woman carrying a weapon of any kind.”

  She shrugged, and the gesture was clear.

  You do the math.

  “If anyone here has a gun, it will be Darren,” John said. “And if Rachel’s right, he’s got himself a group of people loyal to him, and they are controlling the rest. And she is right, Michael, the make-up of the place is all wrong. Like it or not, men are generally stronger and faster. When the shit hit the fan, it’s more likely that a greater number of men would have been able to fight off the Infected. This is more like…I don’t know, they’ve been drawing people in here with that light, and they’re only keeping the women.”

  Michael nodded glumly as he saw Rachel’s expression darken. He knew exactly what she was thinking. Victor.

  “So I guess the question is what are they doing with the men?” Michael said.

  “And the women,” Rachel snapped hotly.

  John nodded.

  “That’s one question. And it’s an important one,” he added hastily when he saw Rachel’s head whip sharply toward him. “But the biggest question of all, Michael, is where the fuck are the Infected? And since we’re in the mood for questions, why do these people have one tied up in the town centre…and why the hell does it talk?”

  Michael massaged his temples. He had only been awake a few minutes, and already he wished he could crawl back into oblivion.

  Before he could respond, the door swung open, making them all jump. A young woman, barely older than a teenager, stood in the doorway and regarded them all with barren, empty eyes ringed by dark circles. She looked like she had been crying. Looked, in fact, like she had cried until she had no tears left.

  “Darren would like to see you now,” she said, and her tone, flattened to a whisper by fear and damage, reminded Michael of the way Rachel had sounded in Victor’s bunker, and made his blood run cold.

  6

  When dawn broke over Catterick, bullet-grey light and freezing wind chasing away the shadow of the night, it was only a matter of time before the screaming started.

  Nick Hurt was a first year Lieutenant. Or perhaps had been a first year Lieutenant was more accurate. What he was now, he wasn’t quite sure. Other than shit-his-pants terrified, of course. But in some ways that was nothing new. The army had terrified him long before its members began to eat each other.

  Typically, Lieutenant was a position held for about three years before promotion to Captain was considered. It was a chance to lead a platoon of thirty-odd soldiers, and to get some command experience before taking on bigger tasks.

  To an outsider at least, Nick had made a promising start to his career as an officer; his uniform had barely been emblazoned with his current rank before his superiors started dropping hints about what a fine Captain he would make. It helped that he came from a fighting family: his father had been a Lieutenant-Colonel, his uncle a Major. Both had trained at Catterick, and the Hurt name became a legacy that game him a powerful boost of goodwill, and meant the many mistakes he made along the way were overlooked.

  His family had served with distinction in conflicts across Eastern Europe and the Middle East. His father had led a force of over six hundred heroically in the brief war in the Falklands.

  And I lost my entire platoon while I was safely stationed at the largest garrison the British Army has to offer.

  If dear old Dad was looking down from Heaven (unlikely) or watching from below (far greater chance of that) he would have snorted with derision. Of course Nick had lost his entire platoon without even going to war.

  Nick knew that if Lieutenant-Colonel Colin Hurt had been able to give his opinion on matters, he would say that the best thing his son could have done was to die with them. At least then he might have brought some honour to the family.

  The pressure to join the army had been present since Nick, pink and soft and pudgy, had chewed noisily on his first rusk. It didn’t matter to his father that Nick was a terrible fit for the role right from the start. There was no chance in Hell that Colin Hurt going to raise a thoughtful, sensitive boy. He was going to raise an officer.

  Nick had never quite found the courage to tell his father he wanted no part of the army, and once he was in, there seemed to be no escape from the preordained torture. Nick had a feeling that the army would keep promoting him until one day he found himself in charge of the entire damn thing, and still with no clue what he was doing. Even being inept had no effect: all he got was affectionate slaps on the back and conspiratorial winks from grey-haired warriors who had to ‘do right’ by the memory of Colin Hurt and take care of little Nick. Even in death the old bastard had managed to exert complete control over Nick’s life.

  And then, after a battle in its own backyard, a shrieking, howling, terrifying hour spent killing people that wore the same uniform, the army looked to have unexpectedly died, and maybe, just maybe, Nick was finally free.

  In the chaos that followed the arrival of the virus, leadership seemed to have disappeared. All high ranking officers were gone or dead. All communication was down. There was, Nick thought, a real danger that the people at Catterick were going to start thinking for themselves and behaving like people rather than soldiers.

  Unfortunate, then, that the highest ranking officer left alive had decided that the army must prevail, and that anyone caught so much as thinking that maybe the army had had its day would be punished as a deserter.

  Unfortunate also that Colonel Dave Hopper was a raving lunatic; even more so that enough people still feared him sufficiently to propel him to power.

  Nick sat on the low wall that had become his regular perch in The Heart and glowered as he saw Hopper pass by in the distance, chest puffed out in self-importance, flanked by a ridiculously unnecessary security detail. Doubtless the man had found some ultra-important task that required his personal attention. Maybe someone, somewhere, had veered too close to independent thought.

  Nick had left the crowded dorm as soon as his eyes opened that morning. The proximity of hundreds of others, piled in sleeping bags almost on top of each other left him feeling claustrophobic and he slept terribly. He spent as much time as possible outside, on the low wall in the square, trying to find some space to breathe.

  He drained a thermos of almost-cold tomato soup, and grimaced. The soup was fine, though it made a poor breakfast. Still, Nick did not think the bitter taste in his mouth had anything to do with their food supplies.

  In their attempts to block out the nightmare outside, the citizens of Catterick had simply kick-started a different nightmare inside.

  Colonel Hopper had been universally disliked even before his sudden ascension to the position of God-King of Catterick. His was the lowest of the staff ranks, but that had never stopped him browbeating all around him, regardless of their
seniority. He was belligerent, abrasive and intimidating, and he seized power with fervent relish.

  It made sense that Hopper would survive the apocalypse. Nick had a feeling that if he were one of only two people left on the planet, Dave Hopper would be the other.

  Hopper had quickly rallied a unit of terrified loyalists to his cause, and had then successfully argued that with tensions at Catterick rising like sun-blasted mercury, the carrying of weapons should be restricted to what, in effect, became Hopper’s own personal guard.

  FUBAR didn’t do the situation any justice.

  All debate about whether or not the people that remained after the grisly battle with the infection were still an ‘army’ or just plain old ‘survivors’ was quickly shut down, or at least marginalised and pushed into the shadows. Those that King Hopper decreed were ‘trouble’ - even those that he believed might cause trouble - were locked away, and the rest began to build a wall around the centre of the Garrison, providing the new king with a fortress. Hierarchy had to be maintained at all costs in order to avoid The Heart sliding into chaos, of course.

  It seemed that only Nick could see the insanity inherent in locking able bodies away for ‘crimes’ they hadn’t even committed when a very real threat could stroll up to their front door at any moment.

  The area they had chosen to wall off was a cluster of the larger buildings at the centre of the town. The ridiculously-named Heart. The town centre was the wisest choice, strategically speaking. Hopper might be a slavering loon, but he was far from stupid.

  At the nucleus of the makeshift fortress, the open space between the large medical centre and even larger barracks had been turned into a sort of public square. People gathered there, murmuring in small groups. Tables were laid out with food - the lukewarm soup mostly - and cold drinks. It made the walled-off fortress they had created feel a little like a small community, as if the creation of a public space represented them clinging to society, or civilization, but Nick knew that wasn’t the reason for it.

  It wasn’t a need for civilization that drove the soldiers to huddle together in the square; it was terror. It was the illusory safety of the herd that brought them together; the need to see that they weren’t facing the horror of the world alone. Strength in numbers.