Psychosis (Wildfire Chronicles Vol. 3) Page 4

  “Oh my God, what am I going to do?”

  Deborah sounded a little hysterical. Alex aimed for a reassuring tone.

  “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

  “Safe?” She flashed a wide-eyed look at him.

  “Ah,” he said as understanding dawned on him. “You’re fine, Doc, I’ve never hurt anybody remember?”

  She snorted.

  “It’s not you I’m worried about Alex. It’s him.”

  *

  “We’ve got food.”

  Michael kept his voice deliberately low, so low he wasn’t even sure the figure in the woods would be able to hear it.

  In the end it had been an executive decision: Rachel was still frowning, apparently unable to decide what to do about the company they suddenly had; Jason was simply staring into space. Michael couldn’t even guess at what dilemma the big man was trying to solve, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with whoever was out there in the trees.

  The three of them were traumatised, in shock most likely, and Michael knew from experience that trauma led to bad decision making. He remembered watching, rooted to the spot in a blurred memory, as a woman whose husband was trapped in a burning house in Cardiff, back when he had been involved in actual police work, had suddenly turned on the men in uniforms, the ones that she perceived as simply standing and watching her beloved spouse burn.

  The woman had launched herself at them, lost in fury, striking and scratching at the police, and for all the understanding they had tried to show, they had been forced to throw her in the back of a van, even as her husband escaped through the back door with injuries no worse than smoke-scarred lungs. Bad decisions.

  Michael knew two things: firstly, there was safety in numbers. The creatures had a serious weight advantage, and any extra body that might even up the score a little was something they had to consider. Secondly, whoever the figure in the woods was, it was definitely not one of them. Because it wasn’t currently trying to tear them all apart. They were attackers, not stealthy watchers.

  At his words, Rachel looked at him sharply. He nodded reassurance to her. It’ll be ok.

  “You must be hungry, we mean you no harm. Join us.”

  After a few moments the bushes rustled, parting enough for Michael to make out cautious eyes peering at him. Michael was reminded of his attempts to befriend a stray cat that had visited his garden years before. It had been wild, terrified; snapping and hissing at his attempts at friendship. But it had also been starving. Eventually survival instincts would always overcome fear.

  Michael smiled broadly at the slowly parting bushes, hoping the combination of dirt, blood, sweat and fear that must have been etched on his face didn’t make him look manic.

  The figure stepped from the trees. A man, bare-chested and shivering. He was tall, athletic, injured: Michael saw a deep wound on his shoulder that seemed to be oozing blood and looked like it needed stitches. What really caught his attention though was the man’s face: it was obvious he’d been through some horrific ordeal – Michael wondered briefly how many people there were left out there who had not – but it wasn’t fear written across the man’s features. It was confusion.

  “Come, sit down,” Michael said. “We’ve got all the elements of a healthy breakfast right here: sausage rolls, biscuits. I think there might even be some liquor.” He grinned, and felt his nerves ease a little when the smile was returned.

  The man sat near the fire, accepting a half-eaten packet of biscuits with a nod of thanks.

  “Who are you people?” he asked, his voice gruff, and the words brought on a short coughing fit. Michael could see the soot on his body now, mixing with the blood to form a sort of paste, and he had a bad burn that ran around the left side of his waist and across his back. Fire. Michael thought about the explosion they had heard in the night.

  “The man with the biscuits is Michael,” Rachel said, and Michael was gratified to hear her tone: she had obviously reached the same conclusions as he had. “The mountain over there is my brother, Jason. I’m Rachel.”

  “I’m…” the man started, before trailing off.

  Rachel saw the break in the man’s eyes then, saw a feeling of loss and bewilderment that took her straight back to that rooftop, and to Jason, a bloody roof tile in his hand. She felt sympathy well up for the stranger despite herself.

  “Were you in St. Davids?” she asked gently.

  The man’s eyes clouded.

  “I…don’t know. I don’t remember anything before a few hours ago. I came to in some wreckage, like a plane had crashed, there were bodies everywhere, and then these…people…chasing me.” His voice faltered.

  “You don’t know your name?” Michael asked.

  The man shook his head. “Not for sure. I had this in my pocket,” – he fished out a small strip of plastic, similar to a credit card – “So I suppose I’m John Francis, but I don’t know. Don’t even know if these are my trousers.”

  He snorted, and then chuckled, and then suddenly they were all smiling. Even Jason’s mouth seemed to curve a little. Rachel grinned, put a hand over her lips to stifle the laughter, and gradually, mindful of the noise they were making, silence was restored.

  “A world so fucked that a man can’t even be sure whose trousers he is wearing,” Michael intoned sombrely. John fixed his trousers with a morose stare and nodded glumly, and then there was no stopping it.

  Michael’s words, the impeccable deadpan delivery of them, drove Rachel over the edge first; giggling until her sides ached. Michael caught the infection next, and his wheezing laugh just drove her on, tears streaming down her face, tracing a path through the caked-on dirt and blood. John’s bewildered face poured fuel on the hysteria and then he was laughing too, shaking his head.

  And then, even as Rachel’s eyes filled with tears, some part of her mind was trying to process an alternative thought: Jason’s getting up and then she was screaming, her thoughts suddenly slogging through wet sand as she watched her brother snatch up the knife and pipe he had used to devastating effect the previous night, and he was turning to face the horde of Infected that burst from the line of trees and tore toward them, snarling.

  Chapter 3

  Rothbury’s relevance had faded around seven hundred years before the infection finally killed off its stubborn resistance. Once a burgeoning market town, located on the banks of the river Coquet, with excellent transport links to larger towns, it had been a hub for the wool trade. Technological progress quickly left the town behind, rendering it quaint; just another small collection of historically interesting buildings for ramblers to peer at as they followed a walking path set out by the National Trust.

  It had a population of just two thousand, many of them farmers, and virtually no crime at all, despite being the de facto home to almost all of the UK’s most violent offenders of the past three or more decades.

  It had taken Alex and Deborah a little under fifteen minutes to travel the distance between the hospital and the town. En route they had seen precisely one car. Almost fatally not seen it, given the speed the thing was travelling. The car hadn’t stopped after the near-collision, and Alex, still gripping the dashboard, felt something in his gut begin to roll around, an intuition that wanted an attentive audience.

  When they reached a small parking area on the hill overlooking Rothbury, he regretted not listening. The town was still the best part of a mile away, but they were close enough to see it. Rothbury had suffered extensive damage, as though a small war had broken out there. Several of the buildings were smouldering, and the handful of cars they could make out on the roads looked to have been involved in collisions.

  Deborah stared at Alex, and then back at the burning town.

  “What happened?”

  She sounded very young suddenly, and very afraid. Alex felt a stab of sympathy.

  “Uh…terrorism?"

  A pained look contorted her features, and she put the car in gear and headed toward the town without a wor
d.

  Realisation dawned. Of course. She lives here. Lived.

  ‘Home’ was the last word Alex would have used to describe Rothbury as they approached the edge of town, Deborah slowing the car to a crawl, and finally they saw it up close.

  The town was a bloodbath. The entire population looked to have spilled onto the streets simultaneously, and then proceeded to tear each other apart.

  Alex stared at it in wonder as they entered from the west. There were bodies everywhere, walls and cars stained dark with blood. He saw a severed head sitting atop the bonnet of a Toyota like a grisly hood ornament, the thing’s eyes fixed in terror on some horror that had long since departed. What did you see? Alex thought, and lifted his hand, placing it on Deborah’s arm.

  “Stop here.”

  “I need to get to my parents’ house, it’s not far.”

  “Stop here.” A little bit of steel poured into the mould, a touch of him in the tone. She stopped.

  “We’re barely in the town,” she began, but he lifted a hand to silence her.

  “Have you looked outside? I’d say we’re going to want this car on the edge of town when we have to get the fuck out of here.”

  He saw the logic of it hit home, and she killed the engine.

  *

  John Francis.

  The words meant little to him. His mind was like a dry sponge. It offered up nothing.

  The small rectangular identity card he had found in his pocket while he had sat propped against that tree all through the fiercely cold night, listening intently until the three figures huddled around the fire had fallen asleep, told him nothing. A name, a long serial number, the name of some organisation – his job, probably. Chrysalis Systems Ltd. Suitably generic and utterly unhelpful.

  He had worked constantly at his mind, trying to summon up something other than fragmented snapshots, but all he got was a series of images: a blonde woman. A vehicle exploding in front of him on a sun-bleached dirt road. The soundtrack accompanying the images was always the same, though.

  Gunfire.

  Remembered shots repeated in his head at the very moment that the massive man sitting opposite him leapt up like he’d received a dose of adrenaline and smashed a lead pipe into the eyeless thing’s head.

  Gunfire.

  He didn’t know what it meant, but suddenly John Francis was on his feet and moving forward, and he felt a strange sensation building in his gut, a familiarity, like returning home.

  *

  Rachel’s astonishment at the sudden change in the morning was matched only by self-recrimination. That was stupid, Rach. Don’t do that again.

  “Michael can’t walk, stay close to Michael!” she yelled, and lunged forward and up, scooping up a knife and driving it into the neck of what had been a teenager, all black mascara and piercings, surprised at the way it felt, the way the neck resisted briefly for a moment before letting the knife in. Warm blood spurted out onto her arm, and she felt her stomach heave and staggered backwards.

  The thing went down gurgling, still focused on her, still clawing at the air, like its mind had not received the message from its body, or was unwilling to accept it. Sniffer…she thought absently, and then her foggy eyes lifted to see Jason obliterating another forehead and John…well…what was John doing?

  *

  Military. Michael knew it as soon as he saw the bare-chested man move, knew it deep in his gut, the way he’d know that he was hungry or that he needed a drink.

  Sat on the floor next to the fire, with the gun beyond his reach, Michael was reduced to limply throwing rocks at their attackers, seething in frustration at his useless body, and he saw the difference immediately. Where Jason was a juggernaut of brute force, each mighty swing of either weapon clutched in his huge hands ending each particular encounter, John fought in the manner that a dancer might show off a well-practiced routine. He was sharp, graceful, quick; attacking them high and low, incapacitating them with devastating subtlety. Michael watched as he met them low, bringing them to the floor, and then killing in the next, upward motion. It was breath-taking.

  Who is this guy?

  There had been six of them, reduced to one in seconds. The last one, launching itself toward Jason from his blind side.

  Jason cried out in shock when John deflected the thing’s jump with a shoulder charge, and it crashed harmlessly past the big man, the snapping teeth and grasping hands missing their mark.

  It hit the floor with a snarl, and then popped back up, coming for him again. Jason caught its neck in one massive paw, and lifted it off its feet.

  Michael watched, stunned, as Jason carried the thing to the cliff’s edge and held it there for several long seconds, peering at it intently, observing every desperate snap of its jaw.

  “For God’s sake, Jason!” Rachel said sharply in a tone like crushed glass, and Jason finally opened his hand, letting the creature fall to its death.

  It frantically grasped upward toward them the whole way down.

  “What the hell was that?” Michael snapped.

  “I know,” Rachel said flippantly, turning away from the cliff’s edge. “How come you can fight like that John?”

  Michael stared at her, eyes narrowed. She returned the look steadfastly.

  “Uh…I don’t really know,” John said. “I wasn’t really thinking. Autopilot, right?”

  Michael continued to meet Rachel’s eyes. He could read something there, he knew it. She was uncomfortable. She had felt it too, watching Jason. Felt the detached cruelty of it. Still, he thought he understood her look: I’ll handle it.

  He nodded slightly. “I’d say that’s apt,” he said, turning his gaze to John. “You’re military, have to be. That was so,” he paused, searching for the right word, “efficient.”

  John shrugged, and Michael thought he could tell from the gesture that John was speaking the truth: the man really didn’t know. Michael wasn’t sure whether that knowledge made him feel more or less secure: on the one hand John’s presence, much like Jason’s, was reassuring: he could handle himself. On the other hand, how was it possible to totally trust someone that didn’t even know themselves whether or not they could be trusted?

  A familiar anxiety nagged at him, the uncertainty, that inability to make a decision. He pushed it back. Trusting John might get him killed, but he had a feeling that in the new world, indecision would get him killed quicker. He remembered the odd sense of liberation he’d felt upon the discovery that his legs no longer worked, as if he had touched the bottom and the only way left was up. He tried to cling to the notion.

  “So…” John said, “Never mind me, can someone fill me in on them?”

  He waved his bloodied knife at the corpses littering the ground.

  He doesn’t know. Doesn’t remember.

  Michael searched for the words, for some way to explain the events of the past few days without sounding like a lunatic.

  “Infected,” Rachel said flatly. “Now you know about as much as we do.”

  John stared at her, perplexed.

  “It started a few days ago,” she explained. “We don’t know why or how. Just suddenly everyone started killing everyone else. It spreads through their bite we think, anyone I’ve seen get bitten jumps up straight away and joins the party.”

  John stared, clearly stunned.

  “They tear their eyes out first,” Michael said softly, his eyes far away in some memory.

  “Yeah, that too,” Rachel agreed. “They tear out their own eyes. It’s a nice touch. Extra terrifying. And then they start…hunting us. They can hear like dogs, probably smell like them too. And they’re utterly insane, blood-crazed.”

  She shrugged as if there wasn’t anything else to say.

  “Christ.”

  Rachel nodded.

  “Yeah, his help would be nice, but it looks like we’re on our own. And it won’t just be them we have to worry about. You said so yourself, Michael,” Rachel said, planting her hands on her hips and fixing
her eyes on him.

  Michael nodded, remembering their discussion as they had looked back on the smouldering ruins of St. Davids. “Right,” he said. “Victor.”

  John looked at Rachel quizzically and Michael, studying the man’s face, thought just for a second that he saw a ripple of something cross his eyes.

  “A psycho,” she said, and the temperature of her tone dropped to zero.

  Michael nodded again.

  “Yeah, a psycho. And a reminder. People have a habit of finding ways to kill each other. Even with all this going on. The Infected are just one more obstacle to that happening. Someone will find a way to get around it. Killing humans is what humans do.”

  By everything that was good and holy Rachel wanted a cigarette, ached for a calming hit of nicotine. Felt her mind skittering on the surface of things, refusing to settle for a moment; her tolerance slowly deflating like a punctured tyre. For the hundredth time she checked her pocket, the side that ritual dictated would hold the cigarettes, and for the hundredth time she had forgotten for a millisecond that she had none and felt the crushing disappointment.

  It was thinking about that, about the fact that whatever the world was now, it might not contain cigarettes, which set her mind on course to a troubling destination. Her eyes widened.

  “And something else,” Rachel said suddenly, and nodded her head toward the plume of smoke that still hung in the air to the south. "In St. Davids it was fire. At night we saw other fires on the horizon. Other places it will be something else. All the things we surrounded ourselves with, all the technology. The petrol stations, the boilers, the flood defences, everything. There’s no one at the controls.”

  Michael pondered this for a moment, and his eyes slowly widened.

  “Exactly,” Rachel said as she saw his awareness growing. “The electrical grid. The power stations. Nuclear sites. If the world is like this, like this everywhere? Then there’s nobody maintaining anything, and that means...”