Linda stood at the door to the cell, trying not to give away the fact that she was waiting. She saw one of the old woman’s sons approaching soon enough, walking alongside a middle-aged man who wore a troubled look on his face that didn’t quite negate the importance of the knife that hung from his belt.
The younger one, who Linda was fairly sure was called Rhys, carried a rifle slung across his shoulder. Michael’s rifle.
Linda trusted Michael. If pushed she would have been hard-pressed to say why exactly. The man had darkness in his past that she thought reached his eyes a little too often, but there was a genuine tone to his words. The things he had confessed to her had been ripped from him, and even as he spoke Linda had the impression that he was trying to claw back the words, as if he wanted to force them back where they came from. It hadn’t been an act. No one could be such a good actor.
Still, as she watched the men approaching the cell, and knew from the businesslike look on Rhys’ face that they were coming for her, just as Claire—as Michael—had predicted they would, she could not help but feel some doubt.
The expression on Rhys' face chilled Linda, but it was the other one’s look of concern that troubled her most. The older one.
His was the expression of a man who knew he was about to do something that he wanted no part of.
Linda shrank away from the cell door as it opened, and when Rhys said you’re the doctor, right? Linda thought for a moment about denying it.
Only for a moment.
They led her silently to one of the castle’s huge towers, and up to a room on the second floor.
To Jason’s room.
*
Jason was unconscious on a four-poster bed that looked like something from a Disney fantasy, and a rope leash around his neck was tied off around one of the bed’s ornate pillars. To Linda, he looked like someone’s dog, chained up outside a store and waiting patiently for its master to return.
“What has he been given?” she asked Rhys, aiming for an authoritative tone and painfully aware that if Rhys started throwing the names of various medicines at her, she probably would not have a clue what they actually were.
“Uh…” Rhys stared at her blankly.
“Just painkillers,” the middle-aged man said. “A lot of painkillers. Some sleeping tablets too, I think. Zopiclone, I think they’re called.”
Linda nodded thoughtfully.
Never heard of it.
“Is this all of your medical supplies?”
She pointed at carrier bags full of bottles and packets, knowing full well that there was more. Everything in the castle had come from the nearby pharmacy, and Rachel had all-but cleaned the place out.
“I think so,” the middle-aged man said.
Linda suppressed a knowing smirk, and moved to the bags, searching through them and making a show of examining various bottles, scrutinising labels that meant nothing to her and tossing them aside.
Jason had wounds—a lot of wounds—that looked to have become infected by the filth that covered much of the man’s huge body. That much was obvious, and might explain his sickly appearance (and the smell), but whatever caused his bizarre, detached behaviour was beyond solving for her. Maybe for anyone.
Oddly, it looked to Linda like someone had tried to treat some of the wounds. A few appeared to be cleaner than the others and healing nicely, but the rest…
Jesus Christ...
Jason’s body was a roadmap of cuts: some thin and precise, as if somebody had attacked him with a scalpel. Others were long, ragged tears that glistened and oozed a noxious yellow pus.
Linda had no idea what sort of treatment the man might truly require, but it was obvious even to her that Jason needed antibiotics at the very least, and she knew the names of some of those. A teacher generally picked up tidbits like that, gleaned from the various ailments the kids brought into the classroom with them, and, in the case of the boys at least, took great delight in showing off.
Mostly though, Linda had seen or heard of antibiotics only in tablet form, and if that was all the bags contained, Michael’s plan, whatever it was, would fall at the first hurdle.
She almost yelled out in relief when she pulled a bottle of clear liquid from a bag and read the label.
Amoxycillin.
Perfect.
Linda stood, turning to face the two men who watched her like hawks.
I’m going to need to bathe him and dress his wounds properly,” she said. “And then I’ll have to give him a shot of this.”
She held up the bottle.
“Uh…I don’t know about that,” Rhys said dubiously. “I think I should tell Ma if you’re gonna stick him with something. Right, Gareth?”
He glanced at the middle-aged man.
Gareth held out his hand for the bottle, and Linda passed it to him.
After a moment of reading the label, Gareth handed it back to her.
“No need,” he said. “It’s just antibiotics. I never heard of that hurting anyone. Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”
Linda got the distinct impression that the man called Gareth wanted to stay as far away from Rhys’ mother as possible.
That makes two of us, she thought, breathing a soft sigh of relief.
Linda took a long time cleaning Jason up. Long enough that the two men watching her began to shift their feet in boredom. Neither paid much attention when she fished a syringe from one of the bags of medical supplies and tore it from its packet, before plunging it into the bottle and extracting a large dose of the antibiotic.
Neither noticed that once she was done injecting the medicine into Jason, she paused for a second before carefully withdrawing a measure of blood and dropping the needle quietly into her pocket.
“All done,” she said brightly. “He will improve in a day or so. Be fine in a week.”
Rhys snorted his disinterest.
“Uh…so, what now?” Linda asked.
“You’re not done, Doc,” Rhys said, and the bored expression on his face dissolved and became something else, a dark and intangible something that made Linda’s pulse race.
“Now it’s time for surgery,” Rhys said, and laughed as though he had been waiting an age to say the line, and he thought those might just be the funniest five words in the English language.
*
Michael’s heart sank when he saw Linda being led back toward the cells. The sense of crushing disappointment he felt wasn’t just that he had hoped she would be freed from the cells once she had treated Jason; it was the look on her face. The blood splashed across her coat.
They had taken her to Jason. And then they had taken her straight to the dungeon. To Ed, and to knives that gleamed dully in the half-light and to the sickening stench of blood and terror.
Fury welled up in Michael; a cold rage that had lurked inside ever since he had looked into Ed’s fearful eyes as he began to methodically slice off the fingers on the man’s left hand.
Michael had managed to block out the emotion during the cutting itself—he had focused exclusively on wondering whether or not the man was left-handed and if he played any musical instruments; mundane bullshit to occupy his thoughts while his hands did something terrible.
Still, the mere act of forcing himself to ignore Ed’s screams felt like it had twisted something out of shape inside Michael. The look on Linda’s face—shock, maybe, but disgust and self-loathing, too—reminded Michael of the squirming in his own gut.
He forced himself to focus.
If Linda had done as he had asked, she would be carrying the syringe on her person right now, and the question that really needed answering was how am I going to get it?
Linda was not being set free; she was being returned to the cells. That presented a huge problem.
Michael dropped his gaze from the window to the stone floor, lost in thought.
"I can go get it, Dad."
Michael stared at Claire in surprise. She had apparently read his mind.
"You keep that up and I'll have to start calling you Claire-voyant," Michael said with a grin.
Claire stared at him, puzzled.
"I don't—"
"Just a joke," Michael said, holding an apologetic hand up. "A bad one. They call those Dad-jokes. Better get used to them."
Claire nodded, but it was clear from the expression on her face that she was half-wondering if her father had lost the plot.
"They'll see you," Michael said.
"They might not. I can run fast. I know what you’re going to do."
“You do?” Michael said, surprised.
Claire nodded proudly.
“It wasn’t that hard to figure out.”
“And you’re okay with it?”
Claire shrugged.
“I don’t like these people,” she said simply, and Michael surprised himself with a laugh.
“Me neither,” he said. “Okay, if you think you can get to Linda and get back without getting spotted.”
Claire nodded eagerly.
“I’ll be quick.”
She stared at Michael solemnly.
"Okay, then," Michael said. "Do it, before I have a chance to think about what a bad idea this is. Just get back here quick. If they see you, get back here no matter what. Deal?"
Claire nodded and bolted from the room before Michael could say another word.
*
Claire slipped through the door and out into the wide courtyard, and for a moment she stood still, scanning the area for a sign that she had been spotted. Increasingly the courtyard was filling up, and most of the people there—none of whom she recognised—seemed to be busy conversing with each other in hushed tones. Nobody appeared to notice the little girl watching them.
When she was satisfied that she wasn’t being watched, she slipped away from the door, leaving it open a crack, and moved toward the row of cells to the right of the tower.
It wasn’t a long journey, but she forced herself to take it slowly, trying to appear as casual as possible. She hadn’t seen either of the old woman’s sons; nor the bald man who often seemed to be by Annie Holloway’s side, but Claire knew they were out there somewhere. Probably watching over the people who filtered slowly into the courtyard. Instinct told Claire to run, but running would be more likely to draw attention, so she bit her lip in concentration and walked slowly.
She didn’t take her eyes off the cells, as if she were hiding under a blanket, terrified of the monster that lived in her closet; certain that if she couldn’t see it, it couldn’t see her.
You’re not a baby anymore, Claire.
Her mother’s voice in her head, soothing and full of laughter. She could almost picture her eyes twinkling as she said the words, and she let the memory give her strength, trying desperately not to throw light on the thought that lurked in the shadows at the corners of her mind.
Mum’s eyes don’t twinkle anymore.
Mum’s eyes are gone.
Claire was grateful when she reached the cell unimpeded, mainly because reaching the cell meant breaking a train of thought that seemed like it was headed in a bad direction.
“Linda, did you get it?”
Claire whispered the words, and felt a little odd addressing the woman by her first name. Not so long ago all adults who weren’t her parents had been Mr-this or Mrs-that.
She heard a soft exclamation through the small viewing window.
"What the fuck?"
Rachel's voice. Claire was glad to hear it. Rachel was scary, but in a good way. Scary the way her mother had been that time when Claire almost wandered out onto the road in front of a speeding bus.
“What does she mean?” Rachel asked. “Get what?”
“I’ll explain.”
Linda’s voice.
Claire frowned and shot a worried glance behind her. This didn’t seem like a good time for Linda and Rachel to start having a conversation.
“Do you have it?” Claire whispered again, a little impatiently, rising onto her tiptoes to peer into the dark cell.
Linda looked startled to see Claire’s face appear right in front of her, and she opened her mouth to speak.
But the noise Claire heard didn’t come from Linda’s mouth. It was a man’s voice. Behind her.
“Hey, what are you doing over there?”
Claire felt the blood draining from her face.
"No time!" Claire yelled, thrusting her hand through the bars. "I need it now!"
She heard footsteps behind her, rattling across the stone courtyard like machine gun fire. Closing fast.
A small cylindrical object slipped into her palm.
“Be careful with th—” Claire heard Linda begin to say, but her words were drowned out by the deeper voice that spoke behind her.
“What have you got there, girl?”
Claire turned and saw Bryn Holloway standing a few feet away, staring fiercely at her; a hungry grin twisting his face into a frightening mask. She stood and stared at him, wide-eyed and unresponsive.
He took a menacing step toward her.
"I said what have you got there, girl?"
She held the syringe behind her back.
“Better hand it over, unless you want to get hurt.”
He took another step toward her. One more, she thought, and he would be able to grab her, and it would be over. She would let her father down.
Claire nodded, reached out a hand toward Bryn...and bolted past him.
She felt fingers clutching at her sweater, and for a moment thought that Bryn had enough of a grip to halt her in her tracks, but then with a jolt she was free, and running like she was back in Aberystwyth; like her mother was chasing her and death was coming at her from all angles.
*
Michael sat alone in the tower and cursed himself for letting his daughter go. In a lifetime of bad decisions, with every second that passed he became more certain that this was the worst of all.
Stupid.
Selfish.
There was no other way.
Sitting in the gloomy half-light, every second felt like an hour.
Until he heard the commotion outside; the hammering of footsteps. More than one set of feet was headed in his direction. All hopes of being able to plan his next move evaporated instantly, and he knew as the thumping feet approached that he was going to have to wing it.
For a fraction of a second he thought about John, and about how much he missed the man. John’s ability to fight had always been there; a stable foundation that ran underneath every action Michael took. He had always been able to rely on John if things turned physical.
But John was dead.
Michael’s heart began to keep pace with the approaching footsteps.
And then the door burst open and Claire hurtled inside, half-gasping for air and half-screaming.
She was just a few steps ahead of Bryn Holloway. Claire ran past Michael's wheelchair, cowering behind him as Bryn came to a stop in front of them, panting heavily.
He stared accusingly at Michael, and for a moment time seemed to stand still.
Do it.
"Good," Michael said almost amiably. "Don't get me wrong, the other one's a prick, too, but I sort of hoped it would be you."
Bryn's mouth dropped open.
"What the fuck did you say, Crip—"
Bryn was halfway through the word and reaching for the shotgun that hung at his hip when Michael sprang from the chair, praying with all his heart that his weak legs would not collapse underneath him, and slammed his knuckles into the man's teeth.
Before the awareness of pain had even reached Bryn's eyes, Michael gave in to the rage and the darkness and threw a flurry of punches from the past, all the way from the corridor of blood and bone into Bryn’s stunned face, raining his fists down onto the man before he had a chance to react.
Bryn slumped to the floor, and Michael fell on top of him spitting out jabs like a machine, slamming the man's head into the stone, barely even aware that the cracking noise he heard was Bryn’s skull.
He only stopped when Claire's voice penetrated the gathering fog in his mind.
"Stop, Dad, you'll kill him!"
She sounded scared.
Of me?
Michael paused, his bloodied right fist raised, and looked down at Bryn.
A bubble of blood and saliva burst on the man's ruined lips. He groaned softly.
"You're right," Michael said in a trembling voice. "He’s no good to us dead."
Claire nodded, her eyes wide and fearful, and she held out a shaking hand.
"They're not zombies, Dad. They're people. It won't bring them back." Claire said.
Michael blinked.
She hadn't been scared of him. Just that he might lose control and ruin his one chance.
She really does know what I plan to do.
He reached out and took the object that Claire held out to him, lifting it up to catch the failing light. A syringe filled with the blood of Linda's patient. Annie had taken the bait, as Michael had known she must. If Jason was sick; if she let him die of some common-or-garden infection, she would lose the most powerful weapon she had, the one thing that elevated her far beyond the people she controlled.
Michael did not doubt for a second that Annie had been suspicious about his suggestion that she release Linda, but he knew that sometimes suggestion had an allure that rendered people powerless to resist. Annie had released Linda because she had to demonstrate her control over Michael. She was compelled to take his own scheming and shove it back down his throat.
Michael had often got the impression that John Francis had thought him manipulative, and maybe he was. What else could a man without working legs in a world of relentless violence be?
Linda had come through for him. He didn't want to think about what she had been forced to do to Ed; about what effect it might have on her. In time she might come to hate him for including her in his plan, but there was no time for Michael to think about that. All that mattered was that now he had a weapon too, one that had been concealed inside Annie's own, like opening up one of those multi-layered Russian dolls to find a hand grenade hidden inside.
Jason's blood.
Michael studied it.
In the gloom it looked almost black. Toxic.
Like poison.