CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 

 

“I’LL FIND A way to get you to safety.” Rick barely believed his own words, and wondered if he was speaking them to soothe his fears or those he imagined for Sally. She sat beside him, her hands limp, the seatbelt forming a tight diagonal band across her stomach and chest, saying nothing.

“I promise you, honey. We’ll get to safety somehow.”

Darkness fell from the dusky sky, wide drapes being lowered over the top of an open coffin, hiding from sight whatever had been laid to rest inside.

I know. I know you will.

He screwed shut his eyes, fighting against a force he didn’t want to confront, and when he opened them again he saw lights in the distance. About a mile along the road, off the main route, tall lampposts were still shining. When he passed the signpost he realised what the lights represented: a service station. He glanced at the petrol indicator on the dashboard: still almost half full. Or half empty, he thought, depending on your point of view.

These days Rick was definitely a half empty kind of guy.

His hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, and he kept his eyes locked dead ahead. He’d seen no sign of life (or death, or any other state of existence) since leaving the apartment block behind, but he couldn’t be sure that there wasn’t some danger lurking at the side of the road, just waiting to pounce.

Anything that strayed into the road – be it human or otherwise – he was simply planning to mow down. There was a specialised impact bumper on the front end of the Nissan, and he fully intended to test it.

The clouds smothered the sky, breaking apart into rough-edged stains. The stars were nowhere to be seen, as if even they had given up the hope of illuminating mankind. Everything felt fragile, temporary, as if something was rapidly approaching an end.

Rick tensed when he heard gunshots. They didn’t sound too close, but if he could hear them it was close enough to cause concern. Considering his passenger, he needed to be wary of everyone – especially some gun-toting broth-head who thought the best way to sort out this situation was by shooting anything and everything in sight.

The stark service station lights loomed closer. One of them flickered, but the rest remained constant, bathing the concrete forecourt in a harsh white glow that hurt Rick’s eyes when he looked directly at it. He eased the Nissan off the main road and guided it onto the forecourt, checking the immediate area for signs of potential danger.

He drew level with the first petrol pump and switched off the engine. As he listened to the mechanism cooling, he strained to hear anything beyond the faint clicking. There was nothing, not even the song of night birds or the thrum of an overhead police helicopter. The world felt empty, a huge open space waiting to be filled with death.

“I won’t be long,” he said, opening the car door.

I won’t go far.

He smiled, but the expression felt horrible as it spread across his face, like a badly healed scar opening up to infection.

Rick unlocked the petrol cap and slipped the nozzle into the slot. He pressed the lever, hoping for the best, and felt like cheering when he felt the hose tug against his grip as fuel poured into the tank. He remained stationary, scared to move his hand even a millimetre in case it stifled the flow of fuel – a silly, superstitious action, but nonetheless one to which he clung until the tank was full.

He gazed at the back of Sally’s head through the window, inspecting the wrappings for signs of leakage. They looked fine, and when he pulled the fuel hose out of the tank he managed to drag his eyes away from her.

He was just about to climb back into the car when he was halted by the sight of the small shop attached to the service station. It was the kind of thing he saw every day, a small grocery store stocked with everyday provisions, ready-made sandwiches, vehicle maintenance accessories, and hot and cold beverages.

Rick shut the door and walked across the forecourt, Glock in hand, eyes skinned and expecting an assault. He reached the main entrance unmolested, and gently pushed open the glass door. A buzzer sounded somewhere deep inside the bright one-storey building, and he clenched his teeth in anticipation of sound and fury and bloodlust. None came. So he stepped into the shop.

Overhead fluorescent lights droned like insects; his feet slapped on the smooth tiled floor; the door whispered shut behind him, once again setting off that damned buzzer.

Rick paused, dropped down below eye level, and waited.

Be ready for anything, he thought. Any-fucking-thing. It was something Hutch had often said during their army training; a lesson they’d both learned together but that only Rick was still alive to follow.

He could hear the low, maudlin murmuring of a refrigerator unit, and moved slowly towards it. He could do with stocking up on bottled water. In a few days the stuff would be worth more than gold. Unless someone had been here first and cleared the shelves, he could fill up any large bag he found with bottles and then get the hell out of there and back on the road. A few sandwiches would be good, too; maybe some chocolate bars.

Rick’s mouth began to moisten at the thought. When had he last eaten?

The shelves around him were fully stocked: bread, a few canned goods, biscuits and family-packs of kettle chips. It looked like this place was so out of the way that it had been missed, or perhaps there were simply no looters in the area. At least not yet.

Places like this held a strange atmosphere when they were emptied of people. It was like the entire building was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen or someone to arrive. The effect was unnerving; it made Rick feel a strange mélange of paranoia and vertigo, as if he were falling through miles of empty sky into a giant, silently waiting mouth.

Rick tried to recall if he’d noticed the service station before, but had no memory of it. He’d lived here for two years, so must have passed the station countless times without ever really noticing it. Like most of the commercial trappings of modern life, he’d simply taken it for granted, not seeing it until he actually needed it, as if his desire had summoned it from the greyness of non-being and brought it forward to supply him with whatever he required. And wasn’t that just the purest metaphor for a consumer society? The common magic of need.

Rick didn’t even realise he’d heard the tiny sound until his gun hand twitched, drawn in its direction as if magnetised. It was followed by a low whisper, hushed words of warning to whoever had made the initial sound.

He moved along the narrow aisle, crouching, with both hands on the handle of the Glock.

The shuffling of feet on the polished floor; followed by a small voice, almost a stifled cry. Then silence, but not enough of it, and what little there was seemed haunted by the words already spoken, however quietly.

He saw them before he even reached the end of the aisle, folded into a corner next to the coffee machine. An old man and a young girl, reflected in the convex security mirror on the wall next to the lavatory door. Rick relaxed when he saw them, allowing the tension to leave his arm and the gun to drop a fraction.

“Listen to me,” he said, trying to infuse his voice with authority. “I’m a police officer. I mean you no harm, but I am armed, so I’d strongly advise against any sudden or threatening moves.”

In the mirror, the stunted image of the man wrapped his arms around the girl, who looked up into his face, her eyes wide and wet. Small freckled face; a question mark-shaped cluster of those freckles on her right cheek.

“I promise you that I do not want to hurt you. I repeat: I mean you no harm.” He paused, allowing them time for the information to sink in.

“Okay. We’re coming out. We’re unarmed, and I have a little girl here – my granddaughter. She’s... she’s very scared.”

Rick felt his body relax; he let out the breath he’d been holding. “I assure you, sir, I don’t want to hurt anyone. Just step out where I can see you and we can talk.”

The reflection nodded, and then stood awkwardly, as if the man’s aging limbs were stiff. The two of them walked out from the end of the aisle, hand in hand. Their steps were small, tentative, and Rick lowered the gun to assure them once again that he was not an enemy.

The man raised a hand, a nervous half-smile on his lips.

“Hi,” said Rick, standing and returning the Glock to its holster. “My name’s Rick Nutman, and I’m just here to get some supplies.”

The man shuffled forward, keeping himself between Rick and the girl. Rick admired that. It was a simple gesture, but one that told him a lot about the man’s character.

“Is there anyone else here?” Rick nodded towards the back of the shop.

“No,” said the old man. “I suspect the cashier legged it when things started to get weird. We found the door unlocked, so we came in for a while. Just getting supplies, the same as you.”

His grin was a desperate lunge for approval.

“I’m Stan Rohmer, and this is my granddaughter Tabitha... Tabby.” He walked forward with that same hand now outstretched in an awkward greeting.

“Good to meet you,” said Rick shaking the hand and smiling at the girl. She peered out from behind her grandfather’s leg, yet to be convinced that it was safe to come out.

“We’ve been hiding out from... well; I assume you’ve seen them for yourself.” Rohmer was a tall man. His limbs were rangy, almost gangly and his back was bowed, giving him the appearance of being much shorter than he actually was.

“The dead people,” said the girl, stepping out from behind Rohmer. “We’re hiding from the dead folks.”

“I’ve seen them,” said Rick, once more crouching down, but this time to meet the girl at her own level. “Hello, Tabby. I’m glad you found somewhere safe to hide.”

“Oh, it was Granddad’s idea. He’s very clever.”

Rick smiled. Rohmer laughed, ruffling the girl’s reddish-brown hair with the palm of a long-fingered hand. His face was small, and he wore black-framed glasses that were so large they made his eyes look like those of a koala bear. They blinked almost comically as he spoke again: “I’m not that clever. If I was, we’d be far away from here.”

“Where are you headed?” Rick moved to the drinks cabinet as he spoke, filling a sports bag he casually picked up from a display with bottles of water.

Rohmer began to fill a second bag without being asked. “Down to the canal. We... I have a boat.”

Rick paused, turned to stare at the old man. His long grey hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and strands had come loose from the rubber band he’d used. Those huge eyes blinked. “Why are you telling me this? You don’t even know me. I could be lying about not wanting to hurt anybody.”

Rohmer placed a hand on Rick’s arm. He did not pull away. His long fingers twitched like pale stick insects. “Listen,” said the old man. “You have a car and I have a boat. We could help each other. You’re armed, and presumably know how to look after yourself. I’m an old fuck trying to look after the only thing of worth left in his life.” His eyes became larger, more desperate behind the comically thick lenses of his spectacles. He licked his lips.

Rick nodded. He glanced at the girl and nodded again. He and Sally had often discussed having children, and although neither of them had ever voiced an opinion, he knew for a fact that they both wanted a girl. “I’ll help you,” he said. “You and the child.”

Tabby looked at him, her gaze bold and unflinching. “Thank you, mister.”

They filled their bags and set them down by the door. Then they filled two more, and scoured the place for weapons. Rohmer found a baseball bat under the counter, and hefted it as he walked down the aisle towards the doors.

“Why can’t anyone have a cricket bat these days? Have we all become so Americanised that the good old willow is no longer the home security implement of choice?”

Rick grinned. He was beginning to like this old man.

They stood at the entrance and stared out at the forecourt, checking the shadows for movement. The long grass at the side of the service station undulated in a breeze, the trees shivered, the overhead telephone wires seemed to spin.

“Who’s that in the car?” Tabby tugged at his sleeve, her mouth dark with chocolate from the bar she’d opened as the two men filled the bags.

Shit. He’d neglected to tell them about Sally. “That’s my wife.” He spoke steadily, keeping his nerves under wraps. “She was injured earlier this evening – had her face burned in a fire when everything started going crazy. I’m trying to get her to safety.”

Rohmer put down the bag he’d been holding and turned to face Rick. His face was solemn, unreadable. Did he know that Rick was lying? Had he seen through the deceit? “I’m sorry to ask you this, but... well, was she bitten?”

Rick frowned. “What do you mean, bitten?”

“By one of those things. The dead people.” Tabby took a step back, moving away from him.

“No. No, she wasn’t bitten.”

“You sure?” Rohmer’s grip tightened around the bat’s handle. His arms were rigid.

“I’m absolutely positive.” Rick’s hand rested on the butt of the Glock.

“I’m sorry. I really am, but I’ve seen a grown man get bitten on the hand and die within half an hour. Then he came back... came back and killed his wife. Killed my daughter.” His comedy eyes swelled, almost pressing against the thick lenses of his spectacles.

Suddenly Rick understood the depth of what these people had been through, and felt sorry for their loss, for everyone’s loss.

“Anyone who dies comes back. If you’re bitten you die – why wouldn’t you? They’re dead, and dead things carry infections. So, you get bitten, you die, you come back. Everybody comes back.”

“Unless you chop off their head,” said Tabby, at his side, once more feeling safe enough to stand close to him. Her hand slipped gently into his. Her mouth worked on another chocolate bar.

Rick nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. I...” he didn’t know what else to say.

“I’ve seen so much over the last couple of days... so much horror. Dead bodies dragging themselves out of graves, murdered neighbours in turn murdering their own children, men and women I have known and loved eating the ones they knew and loved. We’ve entered dark times, son. Dark and insane times. Those of us left, the ones who survive... we’re gonna have to rebuild it all, from the bottom up.”

Rick reached out and laid a hand on Rohmer’s shoulder. The old man looked at it as if it were something he no longer recognised. Then, slowly, with great affection and dignity, he placed his own hand over the top of it and nodded.

“My wife’s hurt very badly. I’m keeping her on morphine, just to ease her pain. She isn’t dying, but the burns were bad. I have them under control, but eventually she’ll need proper medical care.”

Rohmer squeezed Rick’s hand. “Don’t worry, son. I know of a place, somewhere we can get all the help we need. It’s where we’re heading.”

Tabby wandered to the rear of the shop, picking sweets off the shelves. She was singing a simple child’s tune, something Rick remembered from school but couldn’t name.

“There’s an island,” said Rohmer, his eyes staring beyond Rick. “I know someone who works there. It’s a mile or two off the northeast coast, not too far from the Scottish border – Northumberland. You know: Hadrian’s Wall and all that? Off the coast between two little villages called Bamburgh and Seahouses, a place called the Farne Islands. The whole mass of islands is a bird sanctuary, with the inner islands and a few other, smaller islets scattered around them.”

He paused, swallowed, and then continued.

“They’re doing all kinds of experiments there, on one of the smaller land masses. The last I heard from my friend was to warn me that something was happening, and if I could make my way to the island he’d take good care of me. Told me to bring along my family, my friends... the next day, all this happened. I realise now that he was warning me, but I was too slow to act.”

Rick stared at the old man, hypnotised by his words.

“There’s help there. I know there is. He even told me to try and bring along the bodies of anyone who died. I thought that was a crazy thing to say... at the time. But now I know better. Now I realise that they must be working on a cure, that they probably need test subjects to develop an antidote or something.”

Rick could barely believe what he was being told. If this old man’s friend had known about all this before it even happened, and then contacted Rohmer to warn him, what did that really mean? That this whole thing was man-made, or at least someone had prior knowledge?

“What are you saying? What exactly are you telling me here?”

Rohmer’s head swayed, as if he were about to faint, but he managed to pull it together. “I’m saying that I think my friend knew that this was about to happen, and that he tried to warn me. I even suspect that he and his colleagues might be responsible for at least part of it. Maybe they were working on some kind of chemical weapon – that happened during the war, you know: scientists working in isolation to produce new methods of winning the damn thing. Nerve gas. Poisons. Weird neurotoxins and compounds. It wasn’t just the Germans who carried out unethical tests. I know because my friend was part of it.”

Rick grabbed Rohmer’s shoulders, shaking him. “How do you know? Who are you?”

Rohmer’s trapped eyes glazed over; they shrunk behind the chunky lenses. “Me, I’m nobody. But my friend – he and I were lovers once, a long time ago. He worked for the government, on all kinds of things. It’s why I left him and married my wife, trying to lead a ‘normal’ life. I couldn’t live with some of the things he told me he’d done in the name of progress. But we always kept in touch, all through these years, and finally he came through for me, only I was too fucking stupid to listen.” Then he fell silent, his head drooping, hair coming loose from the ponytail.

“Granddad?” Tabby was back at their side, her face pale and terrified.

“It’s okay, baby.” Rick leaned down and picked her up, hugging her to his chest, stealing her warmth. “He’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine, when we get to this island of yours.”

Tabby wrapped her arms around his neck, almost choking him. It was the closest thing to affection he’d experienced in days, and the shock of it sent him reeling.

Seahouses. The Farne Islands. He’d never heard of these places, but by God he’d find them. Even if it was the last thing he did. Even the slightest hope of a cure was enough to make him change his plans. He’d keep these people safe so that they could all travel there together, and when they reached Rohmer’s unnamed island, everything would be better. It would be fine.

It was all going to work out okay.

Rick dropped Tabby to the floor, where she stood between him and Rohmer, holding one of their hands in each of hers. And as they watched, something truly magical happened: flowers of colour lit up the heavens, exploding in the darkness like a thousand tiny sparks of crystallised hope. Distant detonations peppered the night; the sky bled spots of fire.

Yes, thought Rick, it really is going to work out okay.