9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (10 page)

Grant called out, “Hello? What is it you want?”

The banging stopped. A woman’s voice, thin and quavering, muffled through the heavy
door, came back. “Please? Help me.”

“I’m sorry. There is no help for you here. Go home.”

“
Please
! My daughter. . . .” The voice tailed into a fit of coughing.

Grant glanced again at Wallace and Lavinia. They both nodded once more, but remained
tensed like cats about to pounce.

Slowly, Grant reached out a hand and started to turn the locks on the door. Milandra
arose from her chair and moved forward so that she stood behind him.

Grant lowered his hand to the door handle and pressed it down. As he swung the door
open, he moved forward to prevent the person on the other side from entering the apartment.
Wallace also moved forward as the door swung open towards him so that he stood near
its edge, ready to spring around it if needed. Lavinia had adopted a marksman’s crouch
against the wall, handgun held forward in both hands, poised to emerge and fire in
an instant.

A pale, dishevelled woman in her mid twenties stood in the corridor, face damp with
snot and tears. In her arms she held a child, wearing a disposable diaper and nothing
else. The child appeared to be asleep, though its breathing was shallow and laboured.

The woman held the child out towards Grant as if in supplication. “
Please
. . . .”

She coughed again, ignoring the spittle that flew from her mouth and dangled from
her chin. Her gaze moved from Grant to Milandra, who was peering into the gap between
her Deputy and the door jamb, and then back to Grant.

Milandra looked beyond the woman, but the corridor was otherwise empty.

“Where have you come from?” Grant asked the woman.

“Number seven. It’s three floors down. You’re the only one who’s answered. . . .”

“Do you have a husband?”

She nodded and spittle dropped from her chin onto the front of her already-stained
blouse. “He’s. . . .” A sob hitched in her chest. “I think he’s dying.” She took a
deep breath and it all came out in a rush. “I’ve called our doctor but he won’t answer
and the hospitals are full, the paramedics won’t come and my daughter is only eleven
months old, it’s her birthday next week, her name’s Holly, she was nearly a Christmas
baby and
I don’t know what to do
. . . .”

The woman still held the child out towards Grant as if she hoped he would take her
and heal her. He pressed the palms of his hands against her hands, gently but insistently
pushing the child back towards the woman’s midriff. Her face started to crumple and
the start of a thin wail came from her mouth.

Grant silently posed a question to Milandra who immediately answered it in the affirmative.
Together they probed. . . .

The wail tailed off as the woman’s eyes widened. She drew her daughter close to her
chest.

“Go home,” Grant said gently. “Be with your husband. Be with Holly. Be together.”

The terror and utter helplessness faded from the woman’s face. She nodded, now calm,
almost serene.

“Yes,” she murmured. Then she turned and walked away.

Grant and Milandra watched her go down the corridor until she disappeared down the
stairwell.

* * * * *

Tom walked home from school Wednesday morning through a village that seemed to be
asleep. Barely a vehicle moved on the roads. He encountered only one other pedestrian,
a man walking his dog, someone he vaguely recognised as one of his neighbours. The
man was middle-aged and walked with a slight limp. Tom recalled another neighbour
telling him that the man had been injured in an accident at work and now lived off
the compensation he had received.

The dog wagged its tail as Tom approached them. Tom was no expert on dogs, but thought
that the mutt was probably some sort of mongrel, like a cross between a border collie
and a Labrador.

He nodded at its owner. The man barely glanced at Tom. Beads of sweat stood out on
his forehead and cheeks, despite the almost freezing temperature. His limp seemed
far more pronounced than normal and his breathing was laboured, but he walked with
chin thrust forward as though determined to keep up appearances of normality.

Before Tom could enquire whether he was okay or needed any help, the man and dog were
past him. Tom turned and stared after them for a moment, troubled, before continuing
on his way.

As soon as he was in the house and had removed his coat, he took out his mobile and
called his mother. It rang and rang. No sooner had Tom disconnected than his house
phone rang, making him jump.

He snatched up the handset.

“Mam?”

Silence. Then, “Tom? Is that you?” The voice was faint as though the speaker held
the phone too far away.

“Yes?”

“Oh, Tom. It’s Lisa.”

“Lisa! I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

“I got your message. I’ve been sleeping a lot. The signal’s not very good here.”

“
Here
? Aren’t you at home?”

“No, I. . . .” There came a sound that it took him a moment to realise was the sound
of sobbing.

“Lisa! What’s the matter?”

He heard her take a deep breath as though trying to compose herself. When she spoke
again, her voice was stronger. “Tom, listen! I probably won’t be able to speak for
long. They . . . Look, I’m at the sport centre in town.”

“The sport centre? What—”

“Shush, Tom, and listen! My parents and sister aren’t well. I’m not well. I think
. . . I think my mother’s dying. And my dad. And, oh God, my sister, too. Tom, I think
I’m
dying. . . .” Her voice broke and he heard her take another deep breath. “We rang
for an ambulance but they said the hospital was full and to come here. I drove us
down. They’ve got us all in the sports hall, the big one. It’s full of camp beds.
Tom, there are soldiers here. They’re wearing masks and weird suits . . . it’s like
something from a horror film. And they’re carrying guns.”

“Huh! Guns?”

“Yes. I think they’re stopping anyone else coming in. Or leaving. I heard gunshots
from outside. And people are dying. The corridor is piled with bodies under blankets.
I peeped around the corner. A soldier saw me and made me come back inside. He . . .
he pointed his gun at me.”

“That’s outrageous! I’m coming to get you. I’ll—”

“No! They won’t let you in. Stay away.” There was a pause and Tom heard a sharp intake
of breath. “Tom, one of them has noticed me on my phone. He’s coming over. Tom, say
a prayer for me. I—” Tom heard a voice in the background; a harsh, muffled voice.

“Lisa! Put him on. Let me speak to him.”

There was a shriek and the line went silent.

“Lisa! Are you okay? Lisa!”

But the line was dead.

Tom replaced the handset and dialled Lisa’s number on his mobile. It was answered
after the first ring.

“Lisa! Is that you. . . . ?”

A robotic voice intoned: “This number is currently unavailable. Please try again later.”

Tom lowered the phone and stared it for a long moment, his mind awhirl, trying to
take in everything Lisa had said.

Then, grabbing his coat and car keys, he ran from the house.

Chapter Nine

A
s the desert sun rose higher and Diane was able to turn down the heat on the car’s
air conditioning, she became aware of a steady increase in traffic in both directions.
A continuous line of traffic seemed to be heading away from Las Vegas; another stream
of cars and vans passed her, heading away from Los Angeles. The vehicles all had one
thing in common: they were packed with possessions and people.

She wondered idly where everyone was headed. If those coming from Vegas thought they
might find safety on the west coast, they couldn’t be more mistaken. And those vehicles
overtaking her might as well have stayed put as make for Vegas. If the virus hadn’t
yet reached Vegas, it soon would, coincidentally at about the same time as she arrived.
Diane snorted; it was the closest she had come to laughing in months.

The rest stops were very busy with people wanting fuel, food and toilet facilities.
Diane continued to stop at each one and stretch her legs. She kept the fuel tank topped
up and made sure she always paid with well-fingered cash.

As she continued eastwards, Diane considered, merely to pass the time, where she would
go if she was in their shoes. North, she decided. Deep into Nevada, then on to Idaho,
sticking as far as possible to back roads. Ignoring rest-stops unless she needed to
stop for fuel; then remaining in the car, tipping the pump boy handsomely for filling
her tank, but feeding the cash though a slightest crack in the window and turning
her head away as he reached for it in case he coughed or sneezed.

Then she would continue north to Canada, drive through British Columbia and not stop
until she reached the permafrost of Yukon. Maybe that’s where she would make base.
Or head into Alaska. Either way, she would make a cosy little log cabin for herself
and hunt moose and bears.

She did not allow the fact that she had not the slightest notion how to make a log
cabin and had never so much as hunted rabbits, let alone creatures with long teeth
and sharp claws, to spoil her fantasy. She expanded it, inventing ingenious ways to
melt ice and snow to provide a permanent supply of running water, then moving on to
imagine ways of cultivating the frozen ground and building a loom so she could spin
her own clothes from bear fur. . . .

It kept her amused all the way to Vegas.

* * * * *

Like their political counterparts, religious leaders weren’t averse to a spot of finger-pointing.
Islam blamed Christianity for the Millennium Bug. Catholics blamed Protestants. Sikhs
blamed Hindus. Everyone blamed the Jews.

But the Millennium Bug did not favour one religion over another, one denomination
over others. It killed almost everyone, ruthlessly and efficiently, whatever deity
they chose, or chose not, to worship.

Unsurprisingly, most religions were in accord that the virus represented humanity’s
Final Judgment: man has been measured and been found wanting, was the common theme.

Religion, both mainstream and at the margins, organised and off-the-cuff, gained a
massive, though all too brief, swell of popularity. Atheists became agnostic; agnostics
became believers; believers became zealots.

In Britain, New-Ageism enjoyed a revival. A mass celebration of the Winter Solstice
was planned to take place at Stonehenge. A tentative suggestion that, perhaps, it
might be wise to go ahead and hold the celebration immediately, rather than wait for
the actual Solstice in case, you know, there’s no-one left to celebrate it was, unwisely,
ignored.

Churches and chapels and mosques and temples throughout the world had never been so
full, the congregations so fervent, except those that had been hastily converted to
makeshift hospitals or mortuaries, though they, too, did not lack for attendees.

Throughout those first few days of realisation that a deadly pandemic was sweeping
the planet, huge religious rallies took place at which bold, and ultimately inaccurate,
statements were made that only the true followers of that particular doctrine would
survive.

These meetings and marches and gatherings faded as quickly as they had sprung up as
followers took to their own or hospital beds and had to settle for making peace with
their maker alone.

While spiritualism provided solace for many hundreds of thousands, probably millions,
of people as they lived out their final hours, the more sinister aspects of cultism
and extremism made a blessedly short-lived appearance.

Bombs were set off in Cairo, Mexico City and Rome, killing hundreds; the tolls would
have been far greater had not the streets been so deserted.

The Middle East erupted in violence as Arabs and Jews took their last chance to air
ancient grievances and hatreds, but this soon died down like a guttering flare when
there was nobody left fit enough from either side to continue. So ended one of the
world’s most bitter religious conflicts.

In Utah, Zimbabwe and Brazil, hundreds of people encouraged or forced their children
to gulp down orange juice laced with strychnine or cyanide, a la Jonestown, before
swigging it themselves.

In Brighton on the south coast of England, a hundred or so people of both sexes and
most ages from twenty upwards, crowded the Royal Pavilion where, under the startled
gaze of those brave enough to venture outside into the winter weather, they proceeded
to dance and chant and remove their clothes before strolling calmly down onto the
beach and into the sea. They kept walking until they disappeared beneath the waves.

In New York City, thirty or so members of an extreme allegedly Christian cult, stormed
the Empire State Building, overpowering the security guards, who were short-staffed
due to sickness absences, and ascended to the observation platform armed with powerful
bolt cutters. There they jammed the lifts and doorways to the stairwells and proceeded
to cut through the curved safety railing that extended around the perimeter of the
deck, removing it on two sides of the square, shrugging off the few half-hearted attempts
to interfere by the dozen or so watching tourists. Those tourists clasped their hands
over their mouths, some looking away, as the thirty-odd group members climbed unsteadily
onto the waist-high wall to which the railing had been affixed. They formed a chain
with their hands and stood gazing out over Manhattan, the wind ruffling their hair
and clothes. On a count of three, they stepped off the wall together. Two passersby
were killed on Fifth Avenue.

There were many other random and isolated acts of madness, but in the main people
preferred to slip away amongst their loved ones or alone and did not attempt a last
grand statement of whatever.

* * * * *

Tom drove the three miles to town in a daze. He passed only one other vehicle on the
way, a khaki jeep driving rapidly in the opposite direction. The armed soldier sitting
in the back stared at Tom as they passed each other.

As he turned down the road leading to the sport centre, Tom slowed down. He resisted
the urge to rub his eyes in disbelief. A hundred yards ahead, completely blocking
the road, was an army truck, parked sideways across both carriageways.

He drove on, slowing to a crawl as he approached the truck. A man stepped from behind
it and motioned to Tom to stop. The man wore a protective suit of some shimmery material
that extended over the head. His face was covered by a gas mask. Across his chest
he held a carbine.

Tom brought the car to a halt and stepped out. Immediately, the soldier raised the
weapon and pointed it at Tom’s chest.

“Whoa!” said Tom, automatically raising his hands in a placatory gesture. “What are
you doing? I just want to get to the sport centre.”

“Negative. Turn around and leave.” The soldier’s voice sounded metallic and inhuman
from behind the mask.

“What is this?” Tom pointed behind the soldier. He could make out the flat roof of
the centre. “My girlfriend’s in there.”

“This area is under martial law,” said the soldier. “Turn around and leave. Now.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Tom, taking a step forward. “This is Britain, not some tinpot—”
He froze as the soldier cocked the rifle and raised it, sighting down it at Tom’s
face.

“Leave. Now. This is your last warning.”

Tom felt afraid to move. He gazed at the soldier’s face, trying to make out the man’s
eyes behind the Perspex of the mask. All he could see was a grey reflection of the
sky.

“Okay,” Tom said, though it came out as more of a croak. The bore of the gun barrel
looked deep and dark, like infinity.

He took half a step backwards. The soldier didn’t move. He took another backward step
and another until he could see his car door from the corner of his eye.

The soldier didn’t relax his stance until Tom had performed a three-point turn, his
hands clammy on the steering wheel, and driven back the way he had come. Tom could
see the soldier slowly lower his weapon as he moved further away, but he was still
staring after Tom through that faceless mask as Tom pulled out of sight.

Tom slammed on the brakes and slumped over the steering wheel. His hands and shoulders
shook like leaves in a summer squall. He sat like that for minutes, waiting for the
shock to pass, before he felt capable of driving again.

He turned on the radio and headed for the motorway. The radio was full of the news
that Parliament had sat in emergency session and had declared the United Kingdom of
Great Britain and Northern Ireland an area of martial law, effective from nine o’clock
that morning. Never before had martial law been declared on mainland Britain.

All routes into and out of the U.K. had been suspended. Civilians were being advised
to remain in their homes.

The M4 was all-but deserted. He saw maybe ten civilian vehicles during the twenty-minute
drive to Swansea, but twice as many military vehicles. He received stares but no interference.

Tom pulled up outside his mother’s house as it was approaching noon. He strode up
the path and rapped on the front door. Nothing. The house was as silent as the street.

Fumbling his keys from his pocket, he found his mother’s and inserted it into the
lock.

The stench hit him immediately. He stumbled and almost gagged. The acrid smell of
urine mixed with the cloying stink of vomit. Smells he associated with hospitals.
Death smells.

Holding a hand over his nose, he glanced quickly into the kitchen and living room,
neither expecting nor finding them to be occupied.

He took the stairs two at a time, almost slipping onto his face, and gained the landing.
The stench here was stronger, so thick he could almost see it.

Swallowing hard, he faced his mother’s bedroom. The door was closed.

“Mam?” he called, softly. Then louder, “Mam?”

He strained to hear if there was any response, then placed his fingers to the door,
unable to put off the moment any longer. He pushed and the door swung open.

The air that met him was humid and foetid in equal measure. He swallowed hard again,
but did not gag. His nose was growing accustomed to the assault.

He stepped into the room. It was like stepping into a greenhouse whose contents had
spoiled. And it was dark. He could only make out the vague shape of the bed in the
pale light spilling through the open doorway.

He moved to the curtains and pulled them open. It took him a moment to realise why
the room was still in darkness. Black polythene bin bags had been taped to the window
frames. He tore them away and at last grey, wintry light could enter the room. He
turned to the bed.

Tom’s mother lay on her side in the foetal position, facing away from the window.
A duvet covered her to the waist and a stained nightdress clung damply to her back.
He stepped around the bed so he could see her face.

His mother’s chest rose and fell in time with her short, shallow breaths. Tom breathed
out deeply, hardly realising that he had been holding his breath from fear that she
was already gone.

Her eyelids quivered—her lashes were crusted in thick, orange muck—and she moaned.
Sallow, sunken cheekbones; dark hollows beneath each eye.

Tom reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, almost recoiling from the heat.
He shook it gently.

“Mam? Mam? It’s me. Tom.”

Her eyelids flickered again but did not open.

Tom reached for his phone and punched in 999. He couldn’t remember ever ringing the
emergency services before, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to get a recorded
message. The voice was tinny, reminding him of the soldier with the rifle:

You have reached the emergency services. All lines are currently busy due to unprecedented
demand. Please consider whether the reason for your call is, in fact, an emergency.
If so, please state clearly after the tone which service you require, the brief reason
for your call and the address, including postcode, at which you require the service.

As Tom waited for the
Beep
, he rummaged on his mother’s dressing table for an item of mail or anything containing
her postcode.

“Er, yes, I require an ambulance for my mother. Urgently. It’s definitely an emergency.
I think she might be in a coma. The address is. . . .”

He grabbed at the bank statement hiding beneath a pile of old letters and read out
the address and postcode. The line beeped again and he pressed the disconnect button.

A thought struck him and he started pulling open the dressing table drawers, looking
for clean night clothes and underwear so that he could make up an overnight bag for
her. A slight noise behind him made him whirl around. His mother had turned onto her
back and was trying to open her eyes. Tom reached the bed in two strides and sat next
to her, clutching her frail right hand in both of his.

“Mam? It’s okay. I’m here. And there’s an ambulance on its way.”

Her eyelids flickered again, more urgently, and Tom realised that she was struggling
to part them because of the orange gunk. He ran to the bathroom, grabbed a flannel
and soaked it under the tap. He ran back to her side and wiped gently at her eyes,
softening and removing the crusted matter.