Apocalypse Cow

by Logan, Michael

  Lesley yanked open the door of the toilet Mary was in and hauled her out. Already the air was tinged with the scent of burning flesh. Bemused refugees poked their heads out of their tents.

  ‘Run for the main entrance!’ she shouted at them as she hurried past, dragging Mary behind her.

  Terry, James and Geldof were sprinting towards her. Over their shoulders, Lesley could see the cows bearing down on the perimeter fence. Tracer fire was cutting into them and, combined with the fire and explosions, was thinning the herd. The surviving cows, still numbering in their hundreds, smashed into and over the sandbags, dragging barbed wire behind, and crashed into the first line of tents. Screams joined the chaos of helicopter blades, gunfire and the crackle of flames.

  They pelted in the opposite direction, against the flow of soldiers streaming towards the action. The going got tougher as more people piled into the path between the tents. When Lesley dared a glance back, the underside of the clouds glowed fierce red and the flames were licking higher as the burning cows set light to the tents. The car park was visible up ahead. Terry, now leading the way, put on an extra burst of speed, only to collide with somebody who had come running out from the pathway that intersected theirs. The two of them flew through the air before landing, Terry on top, and skidded several feet along the muddy ground. Another two figures emerged from the pathway and stopped to look at the tangle.

  Two things happened at once: Lesley recognized the two men as Brown’s companions and a shout came from beneath Terry: ‘It’s them!’

  The thugs reached inside their jackets, and Lesley saw her death coming in the smooth progression of a brawny forearm. She could not look away as the wrist of the cute young man cleared his jacket. She glimpsed the handle of a gun. That was as far as he got. A foot came flying out of nowhere to slam the would-be killer’s hand into his chest, sending him falling into his partner and the gun into the mud. The owner of the foot turned out to be James, who followed up the kick with a thudding punch to the Adam’s apple of the first gunman. He dropped to the ground, gasping for air. With a fluid speed Lesley didn’t think possible in a burnt-out dope fiend, James closed in and butted the second gunman in his scarred face. He staggered backwards, blindly squeezing off a shot that whizzed past Lesley’s head. James grabbed the gun hand. There came a sickening crack and a piercing scream. More thuds followed.

  Lesley looked beyond, to where Terry and Brown were rolling in the mud. Something glinted with red light reflected from the fires: a knife, grasped by Brown and wavering inches from Terry’s eye. Terry had both his hands wrapped around Brown’s arm, but the knife-point was still edging down. Lesley closed the distance in six strides and unleashed the most powerful kick she could muster at Brown’s groin, which was perfectly exposed as his splayed knees struggled to find purchase in the mud. She connected squarely and his body rose several inches off the ground with the force of the blow. He toppled to the side, still holding the knife. Lesley kicked again, and again, finding arm, leg, stomach and head.

  James nudged past her and planted a knee on Brown’s forearm, mashing it into the ground. The knife slipped from his grasp. Mary appeared from nowhere to slap furiously at Brown’s face, screaming incoherently. Brown didn’t make a sound until James pulled Mary off. Then he let out a quiet grunt.

  Behind them, small-arms fire crackled throughout the camp, barely audible above the panicked din. The flames appeared closer. People ran past them in all directions, some of them heading back into the madness in their confusion.

  ‘We’re taking this prick with us,’ Terry said, kicking Brown, who had managed to get onto his hands and knees. ‘If he’s with us, then he isn’t following us.’

  ‘Fine,’ James replied. He slapped his hand onto Brown’s bald scalp and pointed a retrieved gun at his temple. ‘You saw what I did to your boys. If you give us any trouble, I won’t hesitate to kill you. Understand?’

  Brown stared unwaveringly at James, spat out a mouthful of blood, and nodded. James pulled Brown to his feet and pushed him ahead. He fished in his pocket and pulled out the other gun. ‘Can anybody else shoot?’

  ‘I can,’ Lesley said.

  Terry looked at her, eyebrow raised.

  ‘I joined a gun club for a story,’ Lesley said, not mentioning it was part of a planned exposé of how gun clubs were full of people like Thomas Hamilton, the perpetrator of the Dunblane massacre, just itching to open fire into a crowded shopping centre. They weren’t.

  James tossed her the second gun. ‘Feel free to shoot him if he tries anything.’

  They broke clear of the tents and stood before the main gate, beyond which lay the car park. The gate was unmanned: every available soldier had gone to do battle with the cows. James slid open the heavy latch and they stepped through. The helicopter that had brought Brown to the camp was still sitting there.

  ‘I don’t suppose you can get that up in the air?’ Lesley asked James, more in hope than in expectation.

  ‘Of course,’ James said, and set off at a sprint towards the craft.

  Lesley turned to Terry. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

  She kept the gun pointed at Brown as James weaved between the parked vehicles. Just before the helicopter, he veered off to the right and disappeared behind a Portakabin. They heard a thump, then a yell. James emerged holding a stick-thin man with a lazy eye by the scruff of his shirt.

  ‘Lay off, for fuck’s sake,’ the man said.

  ‘I will when you fly us out of here,’ James replied.

  ‘I can’t. The boss would kill me. Literally.’

  James pointed at Brown, who was swaying on his feet and bleeding from several cuts. ‘You mean him?’

  ‘Fine, I’ll do it,’ the pilot said instantly.

  James winked at Lesley. ‘You didn’t really think I could fly a helicopter?’

  Holding the pilot before him, James led them to the craft. They crammed into the back, while James took his seat next to the pilot. ‘Any funny business and I’ll start breaking fingers, understand?’

  The pilot began punching buttons and the blades chugged into life. They were still picking up speed when three cows came bursting out of the tents. They were little more than burning skeletons dripping liquid flesh by this point, but with the virus coursing through their veins they ran on blindly, straight into and through the gate, which James had left unlatched.

  ‘Take us up,’ James said as the cows streaked towards them down the pathway between the military vehicles.

  The blades whirled faster and the helicopter began to shift lazily. The cows’ hellish faces, skin crackling and bubbling beneath the flames, bore down on Lesley as she looked out of the side window. Then the helicopter spurted into life properly, and they were above and to the side of the cows. The beasts careered through the spot where the helicopter had been only a few seconds before and, like sprinters diving for the line in a dead heat, crunched into the side of a tank. They collapsed to the ground.

  The helicopter rose until it was hovering a few hundred metres above the camp, presenting them with a panorama straight from a war zone. On the far side, where the cows had ploughed through the barricades, flames engulfed the tents in an expanding semicircle. The cows that had survived the bullets and had not yet burned out like spent Molotov cocktails rampaged deep into the camp in all directions, leaving trails of fire in their wake. The effect was like a child’s drawing of the sun, beams radiating out from the fiery core. Here and there smaller spots of fire zipped to and fro. When one of them jumped into the lake, Lesley realized they were burning people. The four military helicopters hovered over the camp, in discriminately pouring ammunition down in the vague direction of the cows, which were now hopelessly mingled with the camp’s residents.

  Lesley felt a sick rage build up in her. She turned and punched Brown in the temple as hard as she could. ‘Proud of yourself?’

  His head jerked, but he did not topple.

  ‘You will regret that,’ he said calmly.<
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  Mary, spurred by Lesley’s blow, lunged across for another slap frenzy. Geldof restrained Mary, while Terry put an arm round Lesley.

  ‘Leave it,’ he said.

  She put her head into Terry’s chest, intending to hide her eyes, as James told the pilot to head south. But she forced herself to look up. She was a journalist, and it was her job to bear witness, no matter how horrific the event. The nose of the helicopter dipped and they picked up speed. Lesley did not look away until the last flicker of red light had disappeared from the horizon.

  17

  Going south

  The helicopter flitted south, leaving behind the battle between man and beast, nature and technology. It was a struggle Terry knew the cows would lose, for they had neither defence nor attack against the airborne killers. But they would take plenty of people on the ground with them before they died. The irony was that the eventuality Terry and Lesley had feared most – Brown’s arrival – had saved them. Without his helicopter, they would have been mired in the carnage.

  Terry hadn’t figured out what to do with Brown. Taking him along had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, and now they were saddled with a dangerous prisoner. Brown was slumped in the corner, looking like a beaten, bloodied captive. Yet something about the way he held himself suggested a tensed readiness to pounce at the slightest opportunity. James was also clearly concerned, sitting at an angle so he could divide his attention between Brown and the pilot.

  ‘Is the military running the airspace?’ James asked the pilot, still keeping a watchful eye on Brown.

  The pilot nodded.

  ‘Then keep her just above the trees. I don’t want to be spotted.’

  ‘If I keep her low, we’ll have to stop soon,’ the pilot replied. ‘I don’t want to hit a building.’

  ‘Fair enough, but we’ll be keeping an eye on you,’ James said.

  They flew on, passing a village barely visible in the gloaming. It was strange to see the small community so dark: no sodium glow from the street lights, no car headlights sweeping through the narrow roads, no welcoming light burning in the pub. All was still, dark, dead. There was no way of knowing if people were alive beneath the impassive slate roofs sliding below the helicopter’s runners.

  ‘Fancy telling me where we’re going?’ the pilot asked.

  ‘France, ultimately,’ Terry replied.

  The pilot snorted. ‘No way. We’ll be shot down the minute we hit French airspace. Britain is sealed off. Nothing goes out and the only thing that comes in is food aid. Even that’s dropped from a great height.’

  ‘I said we’re going to France, I wasn’t asking you to take us there,’ Terry snapped, annoyed it hadn’t occurred to him that they could try to fly over the Channel.

  ‘What about Ireland?’ Lesley asked.

  ‘Same thing, love. The world’s ganged up on us. They’ve got coalition warships patrolling the Irish Sea and the English Channel, ready to launch attack helicopters against anybody trying to cross the water by boat or plane. Nobody wants this virus to get out. And another thing: if you’re going any further south than Manchester, we’ll need to refuel. This thing only has a range of three hundred kilometres.’

  ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Terry said.

  He got even more vexed when Geldof decided to chip in.

  ‘Why do we need to leave Britain now you have this guy?’ Geldof asked, nodding his head at Brown. ‘Wasn’t he the only one trying to kill you? You can just stay here and publish the story.’

  Brown lifted his head. Terry noticed for the first time that somehow his glasses had stayed on his face despite the beating, although the left lens was cracked. He smiled, showing bloodstained teeth.

  ‘It makes no difference if you try to get the story out here or in France.’ His eyes glittered coldly in the dying light. ‘You’re all dead. There is not even an infinitesimal chance a single one of you will live.’

  James leaned through the gap in the seats and thumped Brown on the side of the head with the gun butt. Brown screwed up his face.

  ‘If you so much as breathe on my son, I’ll cut your balls off and play golf with them,’ James hissed. ‘And I don’t even like golf. Understand?’

  Brown’s features slowly unfurled. He stared at James, who held his gaze for what felt like an eternity. James only looked away when the pilot nudged him and pointed. Up ahead loomed the silhouette of a huge rectangular structure, jutting out from the middle of a concrete island carved from the hillside.

  ‘It’s a printer factory,’ the pilot said. ‘We can land on the roof.’

  ‘Do it,’ James said.

  The pilot buzzed over the building, sweeping his searchlight across air-conditioning units, skylights and a small brick structure that housed the staircase. When he was satisfied the coast was clear, he doubled back and put the craft down. Gradually the din of the blades faded. James got out first and crossed around the front of the helicopter. He hauled Brown out and pushed him against the fuselage as the others clambered onto the roof.

  ‘What’s your name?’ James asked the pilot.

  ‘Bernard.’

  ‘Tell me, Bernard: can this be opened from the inside?’ James indicated a hatch at the rear of the helicopter.

  Bernard shook his head.

  James opened the hatch, revealing a small luggage compartment, and pointed the gun at Brown. ‘In.’

  Brown hesitated.

  ‘In, or I kill you now. Just be aware I would prefer the second option.’

  Brown did as he was told, sliding head-first into the cramped space and pulling his legs up behind him. James slammed the compartment shut and turned the latch.

  ‘Is that necessary?’ Terry asked. ‘He’s beat up pretty bad, and it’ll get cold tonight. He might die. I don’t want that on my conscience.’

  ‘If we take that man lightly, he’ll murder us without blinking,’ James replied.

  ‘I’ll take that as a professional compliment,’ came a muffled voice from within the bowels of the helicopter.

  James ignored it. ‘Once I’ve checked out the lie of the land, I’ll find a better place to put him,’ he said, rummaging around in his rucksack and pulling out a torch. ‘I’m going into the factory. Wait here. Lesley, you keep an eye on the pilot.’

  Off James went, his torch beam dancing along the roof. There was a crack as he kicked open the door to the stairwell. Then he was gone.

  Terry stood by the hatch for a few minutes, listening to see if Brown was up to anything, and then wandered over to the waist-high wall surrounding the roof. They were maybe twenty metres up from the deserted car park, way too high for any animals to climb, which was just as well, because on the side that backed onto the fields Terry could see dark shapes moving in the murk. He fell into a daze, staring into the darkness and straining to hear any sounds of human life – laughter, the strum of a guitar, even a blazing argument – from the housing estate he had seen on the other side of the field as they flew in. There was only the wind that whipped out of the trees and blew the faint smell of smoke into his nostrils, whether from the distant burning camp or a bonfire of bodies he didn’t know.

  Lesley appeared beside him and sat with her back against the wall, keeping the gun pointed at the pilot, who was sitting on his haunches and staring at the ground.

  ‘Can you do me a favour and get me a cigarette?’ Lesley asked. ‘I don’t want to put the gun down.’

  Terry fished in her backpack and pulled out her cigarettes. He lit one for her and put it in her spare hand. The glowing tip of the cigarette described uneven circles in the air as it travelled up to her mouth.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  She took a long drag. ‘I always used to wonder how my dad felt when he came back from a war. He never said anything, but you could tell he wasn’t right: there was this coldness that got worse every time. Now I know how he felt. Shitty.’ Lesley took another lung-bursting draw. ‘How about you?’

  W
hat Terry felt was incredibly horny, and that suited him just fine. He didn’t want to agonize over the events of the last few weeks, relive in his mind his friends being slaughtered, Fanny ripped apart, David and the boys being cut to pieces, the unbridled chaos of the camp. There would be time enough for that later, when they were safe. Right now he wanted to bend Lesley over the wall and bonk her – and himself – into a state of blissful ignorance of all their woes.

  ‘Pretty shitty too,’ he replied.

  Lesley had somehow managed to smoke a whole cigarette in about sixty seconds flat. She tossed the butt over her shoulder. The glowing end tumbled in a long arc until it hit the car park in a shower of sparks.

  ‘Another?’

  She nodded.

  ‘It’ll be over soon,’ Terry said once he had handed her the next cigarette. ‘Tomorrow we’ll be at the Chunnel. Then the next stop is France. And we have Brown, so we don’t need to worry about him following us.’

  ‘I know. It’ll be fine,’ she said. The way she was sucking greedily at the cigarette suggested she felt otherwise. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Terry wondered how best to make a move without appearing awkward. He had never experienced one of those situations where things just happened naturally, the would-be lovers moving towards each other at the same time in a synchronous moment of lust. He thought he was getting the right signals. But he had been wrong before and ended up with a well-slapped cheek. His plotting was interrupted when the door to the factory opened and James emerged.

  ‘It seems clear,’ he called across the rooftop. ‘And they have a cafeteria.’

  ‘Great, I’m bloody starving,’ Lesley said, tossing the second butt after the first. ‘You coming?’

  Terry suddenly realized how hungry he was. His last meal had been the sweets. The prospect of food pushed all thought of sex from his mind.