(the greater good)
She reached again for the door, but he hit her again. She fell by the kitchen table, smacking her head against its rough edge. The little girl was crying now, her tears almost harmonising with the tears of Karen, now on the ground, rubbing her head. There seemed to be noise everywhere. Blood was seeping through Karen's fingers where she'd hit her head. Pat moved to check the wound, but Karen was suddenly on her feet.
"Th-they've come for us," she said, her breathing stunted, "They've come because they know how important the child is. She's the answer, Pat. She's got the cure in her blood. You know it, and I know it!"
"I wish that was true!" he said, almost shouting. "But it isn't
God help me, it isn't even
near
true! You have no idea what they'll do to that little girl if they get their hands-"
"They'll help her!" Karen countered. "They'll help her, and they'll help everyone else! Don't you see?! How can you be so blind?!"
The little girl went for the door, stressed out by the high tension. Karen went after her, but Pat moved to stop her. She grabbed the handgun on the table, pointing it at him as he drew closer. His instinct was to reach for the gun, take it from her hands, but she fired before he could do that, the bullet shattering his neck at point blank range.
Pat fell to the ground, grabbing his mangled throat. His body was jerking in spasms, blood spurting from his neck in jets. He felt himself blacking out, his heart beginning to slow as his life continued to drain. He was shocked by what she'd done. Shocked by the bullet wound in his neck, the blood escaping from it. Shocked by the once pretty, naive child holding a smoking gun in her hands
(thirteen years old, and he was loading a revolver)
but deep down, buried by all the other emotions racing through his dying heart, he was also proud. Proud of the fact that she had the gall to stand up to him. Proud of the fact that he thought she could now look after herself.
He noticed Karen by his side, placing her hands around his neck. She was crying, screaming. Trying to stop the blood escaping from his wound. But it was too late.
"Stop bleeding!" she yelled, between huge keening sobs. "Stop BLEEDING!"
"It's o-o-okay
" he stuttered, still in shock. "Just
j-just don't trust -" But his voice failed him, his eyes blacking out and his head rolling to one side as life quickly evaporated from his body. Like steam from a teacup.
"Did you hear that?" asked Lark, his head peeking out from the Land Rover's roof hatch.
"What?" called George from the back of the vehicle, dragging two canisters of fuel.
"I heard something. A gunshot, I think," Lark muttered.
"Plenty of those around," George said, heaving each can up to the other survivor.
"Okay," said Lark, forgetting all about the gunshot. "So I'm just going to tip these over the sorry bastards. I'll try to cover as many of them as possible."
"I just hope it works," George said, casting Lark an uneasy look.
Lark just smiled, "it'll work a fucking treat, mate." He said, still sucking on his cigarette precariously. He uncapped the fuel canisters, slapping the thick, heavy liquid over as many of the bodies as he could. They were about four deep, meaning he got plenty of mileage out of the first canister. A single hand reached out for his ankle. Lark pulled his leg away, steadying himself before trampling the overzealous dead hand with his steel-toe capped DM boot. The stupid bastard hardly reacted, simply falling back into the crowd, hand mangled and face drenched in pungent petroleum.
"Okay, first one's away," Lark called into George, holding his cigarette with one hand, banging his other on the roof. "Take us closer to the tower block."
The Land Rover kicked into action, moving gently through the crowd, closer to the tower block. Bodies crumpled against it, turning to stare in at the driver as if appalled they were pushing up a queue. George parked next to the crowd of dead hovering by the entrance.
"Okay, same again?" George called up through the hatch.
"Same again," Lark shouted in, still sucking on the butt of the cigarette. He unscrewed the cap from the last canister, emptying the contents over the second group of dead, liberally. They hardly reacted at all, some giving out a slow annoyed murmur, others silently suffering the humility of it all. Once done, Lark patted the roof again. Within seconds, George appeared at the hatch, again, looking at the dampened and strongly smelling heads of the surrounding dead.
"Hey!" Lark said, his face suddenly upturned with concern.
"What?" George asked, nervously. "What's wrong?"
"I know that guy
" Lark said, pointing to one of the dead. "Done a little time with him in the tank, back in the late nineties."
"The
what?
" George said, brow furrowed in confusion.
"The tank," Lark reiterated. "Rehab," he said when George still looked bemused. "I did a spell in there after all the E-tab shit was big. I'd gotten pretty into it, so I went in the tank for a bit to dry out. Shook like a fucking junkie for weeks. But, I met that guy in there. He was alright. We had a laugh."
The cop shook his head.
"You had a laugh
?!" he repeated, shaking his head. "Your world," he said, "is so very different to mine."
Lark just looked at him, smiling as he toked on his dying cigarette.
"Okay," George said, looking back at the crowd of fuel doused dead. "What now?"
Lark lifted the cigarette butt from his lips, breathing out a volley of smoke across the cop's face.
"We light them up," he said, leering as he flicked the cigarette into the crowd.
A nearby dead fuck caught fire immediately, the poor bastard reaching its hands to its hair as if to thank Lark. The stupid fuck went into manic mode, dancing around like a bitch in heat, infecting one, then two, then ten others with the same viral fire that it had contracted. And so the fire spread. The first group of dead, doused by the first canister, hurried back towards the commotion, and they too caught fire. Soon, pretty much all of them were succumbing to the flames, rushing to and fro, as if excited.
Lark dipped back into the vehicle, looking out the windows for an alternate view.
"Ha! Do you see them?" he called to the others, like a school child sharing a joke. "Stupid fuckers!"
"Brilliant," George said, almost as in disbelief. "Simple but brilliant."
As they watched on, the herd thinned considerably, some of the dead completely overwhelmed by the flames, falling to the ground. Others turned and, rather bizarrely, tried to escape the flames consuming them by falling to the ground and rolling. It was as if the damn things were learning, evolving, seeking to preserve their pathetic un-lives. The three survivors watched in silence, perhaps disturbed by how much they could relate to the plight of these evolving unfortunates.
"We need to move quickly," Geri said, distracting them all from the crass view before them. "Before they burn out."
"Okay," said George, reaching for his rifle. "Everyone ready?"
He parked the Land Rover away from the tower block, lest it, too, catch fire like the dead. All three survivors hurried out, grabbing whatever supplies they could manage and moving quickly towards the entrance. George urged everyone to check their weapons and be ready to use them as they drew closer to the carnage.
The crackle of flames and pungent whiff of petrol was thick in the air, smoke billowing across the front car park like thick vanilla. It was like a scene from some '80s pop video or a cheap and nasty horror film. George was reminded of innocent days gone by, suddenly, and he held the memory close as he approached the tower block.
"Get inside," he shouted over the commotion, "Quickly get inside!"
As they approached, the front doors of the tower block suddenly opened, revealing a young woman and little girl. George's mouth hung open as he saw them, unable to believe that someone would be so stupid as to exit the building given what was happening.
"Get back inside" he yelled at the two survivors. "What are you doing?!" As he drew closer, the face of the little girl became clearer to him. "Jesus Christ!" he said out loud. "That's -"His legs suddenly felt weak, heavy as the realisation sank in. This was the little girl he had quarantined, the one from flat 23. He was sure it was her. God knew, he couldn't forget her face. The olive skin, those chocolate eyes. He'd dreamt about her every night since. His mind wouldn't
couldn't lie to him. "G-get back inside!" George screamed at them again, his voice hoarse and cracking this time.
But it was too late; the dead, some still burning up like faulty fireworks, moved towards the doors. Some of them had already clambered through. The young woman looked confused, emotional. She hurried the little girl towards the approaching survivors, stopped, then turned back as George continued to yell at her.
Lark was first to reach them, throwing his bag of supplies at a nearby dead fuck who had almost managed to grab the little girl. He bustled the two back indoors, turning and firing at some of the surrounding dead as he inched his way through. Geri caught the door just as it was closing, managing to squeeze through, also. She held it open for George, who finally reached the entrance just as more of the dead were closing in. George could hear more gunfire from within, Lark seemingly still busy. But a burning hand grabbed for him, making contact with his backpack and pulling him outside. As George fought to loosen the straps on the pack, the lucky bastard managed to connect its jaw with his one of his fingers, sinking teeth through flesh and drawing blood. George turned to it, blowing a hole through its skull in anger, at point blank range. He was baptised in its blood, pausing to spit pieces of its brain from his mouth. He pushed through the entrance, falling on the floor in front of the other survivors.
More of the dead managed to break through the double doors, spilling into the corridor of the ground floor. Some of them were still on fire, infecting others and the building around them as they stumbled against the wooden doors and bodies alike.
George felt himself being helped from the ground by Lark, of all people, the two men following the women and young girl as they headed for the stairwell.
"Go!" Lark called, half at him and half with him to the others. "Get up those fucking stairs!"
They stumbled through the fire door, George's heart beating heavily as he moved. He could feel the dampness of sweat all over his skin, just like his last visit to the building. A claustrophobic stumble through these corridors was simply history repeating itself. A sick and twisted version of deja-vu, the dead having multiplied and consumed with demonic fire for the replay.
Halfway up the first round of stairs, George stopped in his tracks, turning back down.
"What are you doing?" Lark called after him.
"The door!" he yelled, "We need to lock the fire door!" But it was too late. Several of the dead were emerging through it as he reached the first flight. "Fuck!" he said, turning back towards the stairs. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! They're in! Keep moving!"
While the others hurried on up the stairs, George stopped in his tracks. He looked at his finger, noticing how it was already inflamed and smarting. A blue vein protruded along the ridge of his hand, as if a wire was buried under his skin. It reminded him of one of those old horror movies. It looked fake, comical. Sighing, George turned to face the incoming dead.
"Hey," shouted Lark, slowing down on the stairs. "What are you doing?"
George frowned, lifting his hand. "I was bit," he said, simply.
Lark just looked at him, shaking his head and tutting.
"Fuck, I'm really sorry, man
" he said, genuine concern etched in his face.
"Sure you are," George said, smiling ironically. But he had misjudged the young tattooed man. Lark turned to go, before looking back as if he'd forgotten something. He stepped down a few stairs, extending his long, wiry, tattooed arm to George to offer a handshake. His eyes told George it was a sincere gesture.
"You're alright, so you are," Lark said without sarcasm.
George accepted, shaking the other man's hand firmly.
"Well, you're still a prick." He replied, smiling.
Lark smiled back, still shaking George's hand.
"Just look after
her
," George said, knowing Lark knew exactly who he was talking about.
"I will," Lark said. He turned, quickly.
"And the little girl -" George started.
Lark turned back, shaking his head in confusion.
"I think -"
"You think what?" Lark pressed, impatiently.
"Never mind," George said. It couldn't be the same one; it simply couldn't.
As Lark moved up the stairwell, George turned just in time to see several of the dead emerge from the corner of the first flight. They looked excited, taking the stairs like children visiting a castle for the first time. George almost felt sorry for them, their stupid, tortured faces swarming towards him. It seemed that hunger constantly plagued them. But were they ever sated? Or was it like an itch that you couldn't scratch?
The first one reached him. It was a middle-aged man wearing a dark suit. He looked sombre, tired, like he had just come back from a funeral.
His own funeral, maybe
George thought. He kicked the man against a couple of others, sending several of them humorously back down the stairwell. The others swarmed towards him like bloated wasps. George guessed he wouldn't be keeping his promise to Norman, after all.
"Alright lads," he said, raising his Glock. "Let's be having you."
Karen didn't know the couple following her, but she was pretty sure they weren't police. The one wearing the white vest top had his arms and chest tattooed, and his face was full of metal. He had a shorn head and huge black rings circling his eyes, as if drawn on. The police didn't look like
him,
that much was for sure.