The Lingering (18 page)

Location: Sir Richard Westbourne’s accommodations

Date: June 24th 2013

Time: 10:04 a.m.

Sir Richard Westbourne stood back and admired his handy work. The lattice of welt marks covering Kathryn Bartholomew’s naked body fuelled his erection like nothing ever had before. Every time his riding crop blistered her skin, his erection grew. Now it throbbed, and needed to be soothed. It was time to sink it into her warm and broken body.

He approached the bed, and looked deep into her glassy eyes. Her gaze, which seemed void of any emotion or pain, told him she was a creature at the edge of its endurance.

He checked the shackles tethering her to the bed, and whispered, “Once I have felt you around me, I will feed you to my ancients. Soon, this will all be over, and I will have a memory to savour for the rest of my life.”

Westbourne straightened and stared at the battered body on the bed. He began to stroke his throbbing organ, and allowed his mind to wander. Maybe he would enjoy a nice glass of brandy before enjoying Miss Bartholomew’s body. He looked over to his favourite chair. He could sit there and enjoy the view, as well as his brandy.

A distant explosion, quickly followed by a second, snapped him from his contemplations.

“Well, Kathryn, it would appear you and Mr Archer tried to mislead me. It seems the rest of your team are attempting to make a late arrival. No matter, I’m sure my people can handle anything that comes their way. After all, how much trouble can two men make?”

He walked over to his drinks cabinet, stroking himself the whole way, and poured himself a brandy. With glass in hand, he turned and headed for the comfort of his favourite chair.

Westbourne let out a contented sigh as he settled into the chair’s cool leather. His mind turned to the explosions and he thought,
if there were any real problems, Samson would’ve called me by now.
His gaze fell once more on his prize in the bed, and his thoughts quickly turned back to the pleasures he was about to indulge in.
No, I can enjoy my time with Kathryn, then I’ll deal with whatever Mr Archer’s men have done.
He caressed the tip of his penis, took a deep draft of his drink, and closed his eyes.
Kathryn has a lot more to give, and I’m going to take it all.

Fairclough burst into the room, quickly followed by Bouchard. Both men’s eyes fell instantly on the naked and battered figure on the bed. Fairclough gestured to Bouchard, and the Frenchman dashed to her side.

He heard a groan to his left, and he turned towards the sound with his gun raised. The hardened soldier felt more disgust at what met his eyes, than anything else he had ever seen in his life.

A naked, wizened male sat in a chair with the biggest erection Fairclough had ever seen. The old man opened his eyes, and they instantly went wide. The filthy old bastard looked both confused and angry, but not frightened.

Fairclough looked over at the bed, then slowly back to the animal in the chair. He levelled his gun at the decrepit pervert’s head, and pulled the trigger twice.

In quick succession, two bullets turned Westbourne’s brain into pulp, and so ended his reign of the Westbourne Corporation.

“Pete, she’s alive, but only just.”

Fairclough looked towards the bed again. Bouchard had covered the doctor in a sheet, and he now worked on the chains tethering her to the bed. Fairclough moved to his friend’s side and started working on the remaining lock.

“I’ll do that,” said Bouchard, “you just contact Craig.”

Fairclough felt slightly dazed, and a little sick. The sight of Kathryn’s body had shaken him to his core. But for her sake he needed to stay on top of his feelings. He grabbed the radio from his pocket, and keyed the mike.

“Craig, do you read me?”

“Loud and clear. Are you ready for extraction?”

“Yes, we have Dr Bartholomew, but she’s in a bad way. Bring your vehicles to the compounds main entrance, we’ll meet you there.”

“No need, the
Singleton
just made port, they’re sending the chopper. Head for the roof, I’ll direct them to you first.”

Fairclough glanced over at Bouchard. He already had the doctor in his arms. “Are you safe where you are?”

“Yes, I have Mitchell on the roof, and he says the swarm has moved into the compound. The complex's personnel seem to be evacuating via the emergency exits. There are whole convoys of vehicles heading for the port. In fact, the
Singleton
has agreed to take as many people as it can carry. There’s also another four Royal Navy vessels heading for Melbourne Port, to help with the evacuation.”

“Okay, we’ll see you back on-board. Fairclough out.”

Fairclough moved to Bouchard’s side and gently ran a hand over Kathryn’s head.

“She’ll be okay,” whispered Bouchard, “she’s tougher than she looks.”

“I hope your right, Lucien.” Fairclough sucked in a lung full of air to clear his head. “Come on, let’s go.”

Fairclough raised his gun and headed for the door. Bouchard followed with Bartholomew cradled in his arms like a baby. As the two entered the corridor, Samson moved to their side. Fairclough stopped and turned to him.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Confused, Samson stared back at him. “With you. I helped …”

“You tried to help yourself, not us,” growled Fairclough as he moved closer to the much smaller man. “Did you know about this?” Fairclough flicked his thumb towards Kathryn.

Samson glanced at the woman in Bouchard’s arms, and backed away slightly. “Well — yes, but I couldn’t …”

With lightning speed, Fairclough’s boot tore into Samson’s balls, dropping him to his knees. Samson grabbed his crotch and gasped for air.

Fairclough lowered his mouth to the whimpering man’s ear. “And did you know they were feeding live people to those things?”

Samson said nothing, but continued to whimper.

“Answer ME!” screamed Fairclough.

Samson nodded, and the back of Fairclough’s hand shattered his nose. Now Samson lay on the floor crying like a child. Fairclough placed a boot on his throat and applied just enough pressure to make it hard for him to breathe.

“I’m going to leave you here, but if I hear you made it out alive, then Lucien and I will hunt you down. In fact, Lucien and I are going to make it our life’s mission to find everyone involved in this.”

Fairclough took his boot off Samson’s throat and knelt beside him. “And when we find them, we’ll make what those things did to Archer look like a minor scuffle. We’ll take our time, and believe me, we — know — how — to — take — our — time.”

Fairclough and Bouchard headed off with the sounds of Samson’s whimpering ringing in their ears.

“Please, those things will eat me.”

“You better pray they do, otherwise you’ll have me to deal with,” yelled Fairclough over his shoulder.

The two came to the lift, and Fairclough hit the button. After several seconds, he hit it again.

“It looks like the power’s out,” said Bouchard as he looked towards the stairs.

“That’s not good,” replied Fairclough as he grabbed the handle of the door leading to the stairs. “Are you ready?”

Bouchard tightened his grip on his precious cargo, and nodded.

Fairclough swung open the door, and leaped into the stairwell. He peered down towards the levels below, and saw dozens of biters heading their way.

“Shit, move it, Lucien!”

Fairclough opened fire, taking out the heads of the biters closest to them. Bouchard bounded past his friend, and ascended the stairs two at a time. Again, Fairclough let rip with a withering blaze of gunfire, and when the sound of his gun died, he heard Bouchard calling his name.

Fairclough charged up the stairs after his friend. He found Bouchard frozen to the spot on a landing, and his eyes seemed fixed on something above them. Fairclough followed his gaze, and saw four ancients blocking their way. He looked down and saw at least a dozen biters closing in on them fast. Up offered the least resistance, so up it was.

Fairclough took careful aim. One bullet, one head. After four quick shots, he and Bouchard were on the move again. The pair vaulted over the ancients blocking their path, and soon reached the door leading to the roof.

Fairclough opened it and peered out. The way was clear, so he gestured for Bouchard to go through. Fairclough looked back down the stairs and saw that the whole stairwell was now full of biters, the closest of which, was only the floor below.

Fairclough pulled a grenade from his belt, then pulled the pin, and tossed it into the stairwell. With no time to lose, he bolted for cover beside Bouchard. A second later, the stairwell erupted into a ball of flames.

Fairclough moved back into the open, and levelled his gun at the flame-filled doorway. After several seconds, two blazing corpses burst from the opening, but he dealt with them with ease. He held position for a minute or so longer, but no more burning biters appeared.

Exhausted, he finally slumped down beside his friend. “I’ll be fucking glad when this is all over.”

Bouchard grunted, and said. “Me too.” The Frenchman turned his gaze to him. “Did you mean what you said to Samson?”

Fairclough looked his friend in the eye. “Every word of it — are you in?”

For a moment, Bouchard said nothing, then he nodded and whispered, “For the Boss, I am in.” He started stroking Kathryn’s hair, and began to sob. “And for ‘er.”

Fairclough placed a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “They’ll all pay, I promise.”

Location: The Royal Berkshire Military Hospital, (RBMH)

Date: July 10th 2013

Time: 8:12 a.m.

Fairclough leaned through the window of the cab, and handed the driver a twenty-pound note.

“There you go, mate. Keep the change.”

The cabby glanced over Fairclough’s shoulder at the imposing building behind him. “I hope whoever it is you’re visiting is okay.”

He followed the cabby’s gaze. “Yeah, me too. Anyway, thanks again.”

Fairclough straightened and tapped the roof of the cab twice. The cab pulled away and he turned towards the daunting looking building.

Fairclough always thought Victorian architecture seemed designed to crush the human spirit, and this building was no exception. To say the place looked grim was an understatement. How anyone could recover from anything in a place like RBMH, was a miracle in its self.

He entered into the cavernous foyer and headed for the lifts, which were guarded by a young soldier. The soldier raised his hand, gesturing for Fairclough to stop.

“May I see some ID please, sir.”

Fairclough reached into his pocket and pulled out his identification. The soldier took it and eyed it carefully. After a few seconds of scrutiny, he handed the ID back and stood to one side.

“Thank you, sir. Do you know what floor you want?”

Fairclough nodded. “Yes, the third.”

The soldier summoned the lift, and returned his attention to Fairclough. “Have you been to the RBMH before?”

Fairclough glimpsed at his watch, as he answered, “Every day since my friend arrived here.”

The soldier nodded solemnly. “This is my first day on duty, and I’ve got to say I’ve already had enough. The place is so bloody depressing.”

“You can say that again,” chuckled Fairclough as he watched the floor numbers above the lift lighting one at a time.

“Did you serve with your friend, sir?”

“Yes, I did.”

“How was your friend wounded?”

Fairclough’s mind turned to the naked and beaten body he and Bouchard found on Westbourne’s bed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say.”

“I understand.”

The door to the lift opened, and with more than a little relief, he entered.

Fairclough looked through the glass door, which opened into Dr Kathryn Bartholomew’s room. Bouchard already sat at her side, and the two were laughing.

He thought she still looked thin, and very tired. His gaze drifted to the scars inflicted by Westbourne, and he could see they were fading. However, he could also see scars that would never fade, and they were deep.

Each of Westbourne’s lashes had taken a small measure of her spirit; a measure which could never be replaced. The new Kathryn, the one laughing with Bouchard, would forever be a diminished version of her former self. He knew her new scars were invisible to all but those who knew her. They were scars on her spirit, and her soul.

His eyes drifted back to her face, and he started thinking about the mission. He’d found it hard dealing with the memories of Australia. In fact, he found it harder than anything he’d ever dealt with before. Hell, he found everything hard. Eating, drinking, sleeping, breathing … all hard.

But the thing he found the hardest was looking at Kathryn, and remembering what happened to Nathan. Somehow, looking at her seemed to make Archer’s death all the more real, all the more painful.

He hated himself for wishing it were Archer in the bed, and not her. He hated himself for surviving when Archer hadn’t. He hated The Lingering, he hated the world, and he hated the constant pain he felt. Not physical pain, but a pain far worse – the pain of loss and grief.

He knew his world had turned to one of hate, but try as he might, he couldn’t conquer the emotion. He felt that his feelings somehow meant Westbourne had won, but he tried to wipe those thoughts from his head. All that mattered now was making sure Kathryn had all the support she needed. After that, payback would come. Maybe payback would ease his conflicted mind, but he doubted it.

As if sensing his presence, Kathryn looked in Fairclough’s direction. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

His hand went to the door, and he joined his friends. “How are you feeling today, Kate?”

Kathryn nodded slowly. “Yeah, a little better. They say I can leave in a few days.”

Fairclough sat beside Bouchard, and placed a hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder. Bouchard offered his friend a broad smile, but Fairclough knew the Parisian was putting on a show for Kathryn.

Since their return, Fairclough had pulled his friend out of countless bars, and countless brawls. If Bouchard wasn’t careful, he’d wind up in prison.

“Well, you’re welcome to come and stay with me,” said Fairclough as he returned his gaze to Kathryn, “Bouchard and I have been given a six month leave of absence, and I’d like nothing better than to keep an eye on you.”

“You’re not my dad, I’ll be fine.”

Fairclough winced, her words carried an edge which cut him deeply.

“I’m sorry, Pete, I didn’t mean to say that.”

Fairclough smiled. “Forget about it. I will check up on you every day though.”

She smiled and turned to Bouchard. “What about you, Lucien. Will you still visit me?”

The Frenchman shook his head. “I ‘aven’t been coping with things too well, so I’m going ‘ome for a while. I’m going to stay with my sister and ‘er kids.” He looked towards the window, and a tear ran down his cheek. “I need to remember what it is to live. I need to put Australia behind me. Family will ‘elp me do that.”

Kathryn swung her legs out of the bed, and moved to the Frenchman’s side. After a few seconds of just gazing at him, she wrapped her arms around his immense shoulders.

Fairclough watched on, not sure how to react. With tears streaming down her face she looked towards him. She lifted an arm from Bouchard’s shoulders, and then offered it to him.

He choked back his own tears, and joined his friends in the embrace.

The three sat holding each other for close to an hour, only parting when a nurse came in to take Kathryn’s vitals. They spent another few hours chatting about anything other than the past. The past was still a raw, festering wound, which needed time to heal. So they left it well enough alone.

Finally, Fairclough and Bouchard got to their feet and headed from the room. They accompanied each other all the way to the waiting cabs outside, but neither said a word. Bouchard got into the first cab, and Fairclough poked his head through the window.

“Lucien, you know the promise we made, the one about finding everyone involved in Archer’s …” Fairclough looked at the cabby, then back to his friend. “… Well, you know.”

The Frenchman nodded.

“I won’t hold you to that promise, not if it’s going to hurt you further.”

The Frenchman smiled at his friend. “Don’t worry about me, Pete. I just need a little time. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Fairclough shook his hand, and for some reason, he knew it would be the last time he ever saw Lucien Bouchard.