TWENTY-TWO
Crazy shit began to happen, and Callan had no idea what was going on or how they were going to survive this time. The man who had run down the street after them was infected—early stages, he said, like the passenger shot at the gate; they had come to the facility looking for help. He fled the black sedan and ran for his life, whilst the other man, who drove the car away from the gate, shot one of the militia and wrestled the car back into possession before fleeing. The gunmen had come hunting though, and now it appeared Callan and the group were caught in the crossfire.
One of the BMW men fired at the fence line. The tall driver ran to the back of the sedan and popped the trunk. Callan didn’t wait around to find out what was next. He ran towards the campervan and saw Kristy disappear around the back of it on the street side. Greg fired at the bushes. The dark shapes of the gunmen were everywhere, darting out from behind trees and running towards them across the grass clearing beyond. Some were even squatting at the fence, firing at them. Gunshots filled the air. Windows shattered in nearby houses. One of the militia fell down as the side of his head exploded.
“Don’t fucking shoot,” Callan yelled at Greg. “They’ll think we’re with the others.” But his voice was lost amongst the crack and pop of discharging weapons. A man standing at the fence lifted his gun and took aim. Callan decided against his own advice. It was too late for diplomatic talks. He snapped his rifle into line and fired twice, hitting the man in the throat.
It was like a fireworks show. Evelyn banged on the driver’s window, chasing his attention. The van lurched forwards off the curb. She was leaving.
Great move,
Callan thought. But as she tried to steer it back onto the road, the van clipped the rear of the red sedan parked in front. The crunching, screeching sound of metal on metal filled the air. The camper halted, then moved backwards in fitful starts.
More shouts came from the other side of the fence. A man slowed near the barrier, holding some sort of large-barrelled gun. Callan took a moment to focus on the weapon and realized it was a grenade launcher. “MOVE!” he screamed at Greg. “GRENADES!”
He didn’t know if Evelyn had observed it too, but the campervan burst off the curb and onto the road with a jarring crunch. Callan ran after it, grabbing a fistful of Greg’s collar as he passed. “Run for fuck’s sake!”
More gunfire cracked from the street side of the fence. Callan wished the BMW men good luck. He sprinted after the campervan alongside Greg. They could make it. Evelyn would slow down once they escaped the immediate gunfire. They reached the side of the camper when an explosion ripped the air apart and shook the ground. “Keep running!”
But he couldn’t resist a look over his shoulder. The fence line was full of militia from the facility. They peppered the last two men standing from the black sedan; the tall man who had been driving the car lay on the ground in a bloody mess. The red sedan behind which the campervan had been parked was aflame, orange licks rising from the hood and the trunk. What shocked Callan though was that it had moved five or six yards along the side of the road. They had just made it.
Seventy yards from the scene, Callan banged on the side of the camper, and it slowed. Julie swung the side door open and they leapt up into it on the run. She yanked it shut with a crunch.
Evelyn took off. Callan lost his balance and reached for the sink, sick, dizzy, and breathless. He needed to sit. He stumbled to one of the seats at the table and hung his head between his knees. When he looked up, he was surprised Greg was doing the same. Jake and Sarah were strapped into the passenger seats near the front. Julie lurched forward and dropped in beside Evelyn. A sudden spear of terror struck Callan. He stood, whirling, searching the van, choking on the question.
“Where’s Kristy?”
His eyes met Evelyn’s in the mirror. The van stopped, throwing Callan forward. He threw out a hand and latched onto a cupboard, feeling nausea take over.
Evelyn swung around. “
What?
I thought she was with you.”
Callan bolted through the main bedroom to the rear window. All three men from the black sedan lay on the road. Orange flames covered the red vehicle. Men dressed in rugged clothing wandered around the area with their guns pointed. Cold fear spread through him. Where was his sister?
Evelyn reached the back, Greg following. “Where did you last see her?”
Callan tried to think. He resisted rushing out to look, knowing he’d draw the militia immediately. Where had she gone? “She ran towards the front of the van, while you were still parked. You didn’t see her?”
“Yes,” Evelyn said, dropping her gaze. “But I was… too busy trying to get the van away. She was huddled by the red sedan. I thought she was waiting for you.”
The thought struck Callan like a slap across the face. He peered out at the burning car. If that was the case, then she was dead. He tried to swallow, but a lump stuck in his throat. Greg and Evelyn were staring. He was their leader, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.
Gunfire sounded. Several men with machine guns walked down the road towards them. Evelyn scurried away toward the front. Callan watched them, unmoving. They had to go. But his sister… they could circle, and come back looking for her.
If there’s anything left.
The thought made him sick. If he lost Kristy too, he’d never forgive himself. She was the last link to his old life, to his family, to his dead parents.
“We’ll have to come back,” Greg said, his blank expression telling Callan he feared the worst too.
The van lurched away. “Zombies,” Evelyn said. But there were only a few, and they watched the van pass with almost disinterest.
Callan sat and tried to think it through, his mind clouded by uncertainty. What if Kristy was lying exposed in the street and the militia had found her? He imagined what all those men would do to a pretty girl like her. Callan closed his eyes and shuddered at the thought. They needed to get back to the area and search.
He headed for the front of the van to join Greg and Evelyn. Sarah lay on the bed, sobbing, Julie at her side stroking her hair. The older woman gave Callan a grim expression.
“Where am I going?” Evelyn asked.
“Left, just here. We’ll pull over up ahead and wait a bit. Make those guys think we’ve left. Then head back around and look for Kristy.”
Evelyn found a spot in the gutter between several cars. Houses in need of painting and repair lined the street on both sides, their front yards scraggly and overgrown. The smell drifted in through the pores of the van, thicker and stronger than before, as though this section of Broadmeadows contained more dead bodies than elsewhere.
Callan slammed a fist against the cupboard. What could they do but wait? The others watched him, their faces stiff and uncertain as he stood in the doorway looking out at the silent street. He analyzed his options. If he went back now, he ran the risk of getting killed, and perhaps for nothing if she’d been close to the blast. If she had, it wouldn’t matter how long they took. If she managed to get away, hopefully she was hiding nearby. That was her best chance, but as far as hope went, he couldn’t imagine a less optimistic circumstance.
“What do you want me to do?” Evelyn asked. She kept looking from the rear window back to Callan.
“I don’t know.”
“We can go out there and have a look,” Greg said, holding a rifle.
“Not yet,” Callan said, shaking his head. “Need to let it settle. They’ll give up soon and go back to the base. It’s too risky.”
“What about Ahmed and the others?”
Callan had forgotten about them. Ahmed had said to meet them at the fence line on the road where all the crazy shit had just happened. He hoped the man was smart enough for his own sake not to return there yet. “They’ll just have to wait for us.”
Callan had another sudden, uneasy feeling. He stood and whirled, searching the floor of the van. Blue Boy… “Where’s Blue?” Jake dropped off the top bunk and looked underneath the table, where he sometimes curled up at people’s feet. “Has anyone seen him?”
“Not since he followed you out,” Greg said.
TWENTY-THREE
Hold on,
Klaus told himself.
Just a bit longer.
He’d never imagined the virus would have affected him so badly. It was like a head cold and fever all rolled into one, his muscles and bones aching with a unified chorus. Worst of all was the itch under his skin that couldn’t be scratched. Through his blood, it coursed, sending him closer to the edge. The others had told of their friend, Johnny, who had suffered the same way. He killed himself. Klaus held slim hope that he could manufacture the serum before he turned, but beyond that, his outlook was grim. The medication couldn’t reverse the affliction. There was no going back.
Instead of climbing the stairs, Mitchell took them a short distance to another laboratory. It held similarities to the one from the defense facility, including a small compounding chamber off the back they could access through a sliding glass panel and air-lock. Klaus wondered if the structure was based on a national protocol for such facilities. Mitchell left them after estimating he’d be gone for twenty minutes.
Klaus gathered himself as he took in the machinery. He wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest, but now that he had the equipment he’d been seeking, he could put it to use. He buried his pain, the voice of his mother ringing in his mind, telling him to fight on.
“I want to take samples of your blood. Test the progression of the virus.” Dylan looked at him sceptically. “Don’t worry just yet. I need to check the markers and it will help estimate the dosage going forward.”
Klaus found a stash of hypodermic needles and vials. He started one of the analysis machines and sat them down at a bench. After applying a tourniquet to the upper arm of each man, he withdrew three vials of blood from the inside of their elbows. It took all his will to hold the needle still. When he had finished though, the strength had fled his body, leaving him exhausted. He sat for a moment pretending he was inspecting a redundant piece of equipment.
When he had gathered himself, Klaus left the others in the front room and entered the rear chamber. Getting the machines running and the blood prepared took him longer than he expected. His hands trembled and his vison filled with white spots. Sweat ran down his forehead. He didn’t like it and wanted to quit several times, take some water and rest for a while, but such surrender was beyond him. A deep indefinable knowledge that he
must
push ahead kept him moving, his feet shuffling across the floor, his shaky hands working the equipment.
A short time later he returned, avoiding eye contact, unwilling to give away their condition through the disappointment in his expression.
The virus in Dylan’s blood was the least aggressive of the three. Klaus suspected it had slowed even more following the initial dose, but with the reduction Klaus had administered yesterday afternoon and earlier that morning, activity levels showed signs of increasing again.
“You might feel strange for the next ten hours, but beyond that, assuming we increase the dosage, you’ll start to feel better again.” Dylan tapped his foot and bit his fingernails. Klaus imagined it burning away inside him. He would battle through until the medicine began to work its magic again.
Klaus turned to Gallagher. “I’m afraid it hasn’t worked so well for you.” Gallagher didn’t flinch. “We’ll up your dose, and see what it does. Unfortunately, once we leave this facility, we won’t be able to check your blood again. How do you feel?”
Gallagher tilted his head from side to side. “Not too bad.”
“What about you?” Dylan asked.
Klaus tottered. He reached out for a bench and missed. His vision turned spotty. Dylan leapt forward and caught him before he fell. “Just need to sit for a moment.” Gallagher found him a chair and filled a plastic cup with water. “I’m all right,” Klaus said after several minutes. But he wasn’t, and he saw the knowledge in the worry on their faces. “As soon as I get some more serum into me, I’ll be fine.”
Gallagher and Dylan hunkered around him. He took three more glasses of water, unaware of his thirst. “We each cope better or worse, suffer the effects to varying degrees,” Klaus said between mouthfuls. “We’ll change your course to morning and night, Admiral, same as mine. Dylan will stick to a daily dose.”
Mitchell returned soon after with a trolley full of plastic containers. Cold mist rose off them. He explained their storage in a refrigeration unit on the upper level. He had also brought a number of portable chillers to transport the finished product in vials.
“How are you going to do this?” Gallagher asked Klaus. “You can barely stand.”
Klaus motioned towards Mitchell. “He’ll have to help me.”
Mitchell and Klaus dressed in special coveralls; Klaus had to sit to get his on. They wheeled the supplies through the glass airlock and into the chamber beyond. Klaus wavered in and out of focus, fighting to keep his feet and what remained of his senses. The fever bit hard, but at least it was cooler in there. He had Mitchell write the recipe out on a piece of paper, noting the amounts of each ingredient and the compounding process. It was much faster than the batch he’d formulated back at the defense facility. He had refined the original process, but mostly he thought it was because he no longer had time.
Dylan was pacing when the doors to the glass airlock finally opened. Gallagher sat on one of the benches with a frown of concern. Mitchell and Klaus exited the other room. Klaus tried to smile, but his face ached.
“Twenty-eight vials,” Mitchell said. “The cooler containers take ten each.” He loaded the containers up and handed one each to Dylan and Gallagher.
“How long will all of this last?” Gallagher asked.
“Depends.” Klaus took another sip of water. “Months I would think. Although, if we start giving this stuff out to others, it will of course run out sooner.”
“Are we done?” Dylan asked. “I need to get back.”
“Yes,” Klaus said, turning to Mitchell. “All done.”
“Let me just switch off the gear in the other room and we can go.” Mitchell disappeared back into the airlock room.
Klaus reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it to Gallagher. “Just in case, this is the formula for the serum. If we ever get separated or, heaven forbid, worse, you could, in theory, use this to formulate another batch.” Gallagher stuffed it tightly into his own pocket.
“Let’s go,” Dylan said. “We’ve got the stuff. I have to tell Kristy what’s happened. And Lauren. I need to find Lauren.”
“All right,” Gallagher said. “We’ll get there soon enough.”
“We’ve been in here for hours …”
The voices drifted. Klaus found himself looking for Mitchell, who had disappeared. He was in the other room peering back at them. A noise sounded from the front of the room. A man holding a machine gun entered. He was dressed in washed-out Army gear and a headband, followed by a second man carrying similar gear.
Klaus got a bad sense the moment he spotted them. Gallagher and Dylan turned, raising their guns.
“Don’t you fucking move,” the front man said, jabbing his weapon forward. He had a large head, a dark shade of beard, and intense green eyes.
Oh, shit,
Klaus thought. They were going to spot the serum and take it, leaving them with nothing. He’d keep suffering. The goddamn virus would get him after all. Klaus held out a hand. “Please, we don’t want any—”
The man smiled, but the dirty teeth he bared chilled Klaus’ skin. “I told you not to fucking move.”
A sudden, terrible thought overcame Klaus. Losing the serum wasn’t going to be the worst of his troubles. He could read the intent in the man’s body language. Klaus knew, the way he knew the virus would get him in the end, that he was about to die.
The man fired. Klaus felt heat and pressure in his chest, as though someone had reached into the cavity and pushed from the inside. He flew backwards into a table and the last thing he thought was, at least he hadn’t failed.