Chronicles of the Infected (Book 3): Finding Home Page 9

  “No, no – London was quarantined, and they wanted to get rid of all the infected that were in there. He arranged for the bombs to go off and I had two days to get his daughter before the allies destroyed it. Well, his fake daughter.”

  “So why would it say here that they attacked if he asked for them to do it?”

  The question hung on the air like potent stench. Gus and Whizzo looked confused, but Desert had a different expression. One of horrified realisation. Like the truth was finally settling.

  “What?” Gus asked.

  “What is it?” Whizzo said.

  “Eugene Squire…” Desert said, trying to find the words. “He wanted the record of his daughter being in London when they bombed it so it could look personal, so there was record of the bombing. But there’s no record of the allegiance, just…”

  She trailed off, her face twisting between expressions of confusion and understanding.

  “What are you onto?” Whizzo prompted.

  “I think I know what the army is for,” Desert announced.

  “What? What is it for?”

  “Eugene wanted to create an image that London was attacked so that he could have an excuse to retaliate.”

  “To retaliate?”

  “Yes. He’s going to invade. He’s going to cite this as his reason and invade, and with the army he’s got, he’s certain to win. They would have no defence.” Desert looked to the other two and saw their absent agreement. “My God…”

  No one spoke.

  Minutes went by.

  Then Whizzo suddenly recalled something else.

  “Oh shit,” he exclaimed.

  “What?” Desert asked.

  “The countdown I keep seeing, the one for two days’ time…”

  “You don’t think…?”

  Whizzo looked between Desert and Gus.

  “Two days?” Gus repeated.

  Whizzo nodded.

  That was it.

  Two days.

  If the United Nations still existed, they would be unlikely to object, given the apparent attack on London.

  Forty-eight hours was all that stood between Eugene Squire and everything he had planned for.

  Forty-eight hours and that army would march into the rest of the world and kill off anyone the infected already hadn’t.

  Forty-eight hours, and there was nothing four helpless survivors could do about it.

  48 HOURS

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Eugene stood over the army, in the same room and at the same window he often did. He didn’t feel the need to sleep, there was too much adrenaline running through him, too much excitement.

  At school, he’d been the dweeb.

  At university, he’d been the nerd.

  And even as a leader, he only demanded respect because of the muscle he owned, not had.

  Everything had changed.

  Everything.

  The door opened and General Boris Hayes entered, rushing, a sense of urgency immediately apparent.

  “Eugene,” Hayes said. “There’s been an attack.”

  “It’s Mr Squire,” Eugene decided.

  “Excuse me?”

  Eugene turned toward Hayes, enjoying the look of confusion.

  “I said, it’s Mr Squire.”

  “Fine, Mr Squire, Eugene, whatever – there’s been an attack in the laboratory. All the scientists are dead.”

  “Are they now?”

  “Yes, we need you to come look. Now.”

  Eugene chuckled, unable to help beaming, a smile of dramatic irony. Oh, how much he had respected Hayes. Relied upon him. Needed him.

  Now Hayes was the one who needed him.

  “Eugene?” Hayes prompted, confused, then corrected himself. “Mr Squire, I mean?”

  Hayes approached Eugene, edging forward with an air of caution. Something about Eugene was making him worry and Eugene enjoyed it. He hadn’t seen a man like Hayes be afraid of him before, and he wanted to relish every second of it.

  “Are you coming?”

  “It’s such a nice night, Boris. Why not just enjoy it?”

  “I don’t think you understand.”

  “Oh, I understand. There’s been an attack. In the laboratory. All the scientists are dead. That correct?”

  Hayes considered this, then nodded, still confused.

  “Er, yeah… correct.”

  “Marvellous. Is that everything?”

  Hayes looked around himself, perplexed and wary.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Eugene grinned and turned back to the army, watching them work through the night.

  “Come, stand with me, Boris.”

  Hayes did so, reluctantly. Stepping forward, precisely, foot by foot, until he was at Eugene’s side, watching him.

  “Do you know something about the attack?” Hayes asked.

  “Whatever would make you think that?”

  “I, just…you’re not panicking. This would be something to be concerned about. What if it’s Gus Harvey?”

  “Gus Harvey isn’t a threat anymore.”

  Hayes went to speak, then didn’t. What could he say?

  Eugene let out a laugh. He was enjoying this too much.

  “See this army?” Eugene said. “They are all at my beck and call. I tell them to fight, they do it. I tell them to stop, they do it. I tell them to die, they do it. Until now, I thought that was the greatest power that existed to man.”

  “What?” Hayes said, looking from the army to Eugene, to the army, to Eugene. “What’s going on?”

  Eugene turned to Hayes and looked him up and down. He wasn’t so intimidating after all.

  “Thing is, though – don’t you find yourself at a loose end?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, this is my army. I command them. Your army is defunct as a result. You are the leader of nothing. What is the point of you?”

  “Well, I would hope that I serve you in other ways.”

  “And, oh, you do. Well, you have. You have been my immediate muscle when the army haven’t been at my side.”

  He took a step forward, and Hayes retreated a step backwards.

  “But, see, I don’t need that now. Not anymore.”

  “I don’t understand, what are you–”

  Eugene grabbed Hayes by the back of the head and slammed it into the table. Not knowing his own strength, he smashed the table, and shook with pride.

  Hayes did not get up. At first, anyway. He attempted push himself up, but his hands were already sliding on his own blood.

  Eugene lifted Hayes by the back of the neck and gaped at the mangled face he had created with one swift action.

  Eugene shook his head.

  Not so tough.

  Eugene plunged Hayes through a nearby wooden chair.

  He turned Hayes over and mounted him.

  Hayes was too out of it and too groggy to know what was happening. His eyes were closed with occasional attempts to blink the blood out of his face. His nose was slanted to the side and most of his teeth were missing.

  Eugene didn’t waste any time.

  He put his hands around Hayes’s neck and squeezed. He didn’t even need to strangle him hard – Hayes’s neck snapped and his oesophagus squished until it was too collapsed for air to pass through.

  Eugene stood and watched Hayes choke on breath that didn’t come, spluttering until his body fell limp.

  Wow.

  What a rush.

  That felt good.

  Boy, did it feel good.

  Chapter Thirty

  No words needed to be spoken for Whizzo and Desert to know what the other was thinking.

  They both stood outside the basement door, listening to Gus’s voice. His voice was calm and expressive, reading a book with more passion than they had ever heard from him before.

  “He’s been at it for hours,” Whizzo pointed out.

  “This is ridiculous,” Desert added. “We have days – in fact, not even
that, we have hours – and this is what he’s doing?”

  Whizzo didn’t respond. He agreed with the statement, he just refused to add to any more conflict.

  “Maybe we should just go without him?” Desert suggested. “Take them on without him and Sadie?”

  They glanced at Sadie through the door to what was once a living room. She was curled up on the sofa, despite the exposed springs and thick layer of dust.

  “Are you kidding?” Whizzo said. “We wouldn’t last a minute without them.”

  “And you think we’d last a minute with them? You think he isn’t a hinderance?”

  “So what’s your plan, huh? We just march up there, the two of us, and start a fight with an army of superior beings?”

  “And what would the plan be if Gus wasn’t being delusional nutjob?”

  Whizzo sighed. Bowed his head. Gus had reached a particularly riveting part of the story, and his voice became even more animated. The zombie’s groans and murmurs grew louder, as if matching Gus’s energy.

  Whizzo sauntered away from the door. He didn’t want to hear any more. Desert was right. Gus was desperate. And Whizzo was…

  What?

  What was he?

  Caught somewhere between everyone else’s war, trying to fight the war that was most important?

  They were failing, and they stood little chance even if everyone was at their best. But with Desert’s constant tirade and Gus’s absurd obsession, it seemed as if fighting was futile.

  Why was it up to them anyway?

  “Where are you going?” Desert asked.

  Whizzo paused by the living room door, watching Sadie.

  Where was he going?

  Gus’s voice paused. Nothing but the groans came from the basement. They both listened, waiting to hear what was happening. After a minute or so, heavy footsteps stomped up the steps.

  He appeared from the doorway and looked at Whizzo and Desert.

  “Need water,” he grunted. He walked purposefully to the kitchen and took a few swigs from the container.

  He past them once again en route to the living room, where he found a CD player and a few CDs in the corner.

  “Saw this earlier,” he muttered. “Thought it might be worth a shot. Let’s hope the batteries still have life in them.”

  He brushed the dirt off the speakers and lifted the CD player’s lid, checking if there was a CD in it, and returned to the basement.

  He paused in the doorway and looked back at the other two. They were gazing at him warily, yet expectantly.

  “What?” he said.

  They both hesitated.

  “We need to figure out what to do,” Whizzo said.

  Gus looked between them both. “Okay,” he said, shrugging.

  “And we need your help.”

  “What the hell am I meant to do? You’re the genius.” He looked at Desert. “You’re the stubborn killer. Why’s it got to be up to me?”

  “It isn’t, we just…we think your time would be better spent–”

  “Doing what?” Gus demanded, taking a step forward, his body arching.

  When neither of them replied, he returned to the basement, slamming the door behind him. His footsteps stomped down the steps, followed by a moment of silence, and the reading began again.

  Desert and Whizzo looked at each other. Whizzo went to speak but didn’t. They just held each other’s stare, knowing they were thinking the same thing.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s try and figure this out.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. We just…need to try.”

  Whizzo returned to the table in the kitchen and went back through pages he’d already read numerous times. He felt Desert watching him but he didn’t look up. He didn’t want another conversation about Gus or about the stakes or about the risk or about what was going to happen.

  He just wanted to do his bit to help.

  He felt useless at the best of times. Combat wasn’t his skill – this was his skill.

  And with the lack of ideas, he was failing mightily at that.

  36 HOURS

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Desert strolled leisurely into the living room – far more leisurely than she should be strolling.

  But what could she do?

  Whizzo was doing his part. Gus was going crazy.

  And here was Sadie – laying on a broken armchair, completely peaceful, despite the number of broken springs digging into her back and damp spots marking the cushions.

  Sadie awoke gently and lifted her head, looking at Desert. There was no panic or alertness, just the relaxed look of a person waking from a brief nap.

  “Hey,” Desert said.

  Sadie smiled back. Which was fine, it wasn’t like Sadie spoke much – and it wasn’t like Desert particularly needed a conversation.

  Maybe she could use this time effectively. Utilise what time they had to do something that may benefit them in the future. Teach Sadie something worth knowing.

  What about CPR?

  Sadie was a great fighter, but it would be good for her to know how to resuscitate one them if need be.

  “You busy?” Desert asked.

  Sadie looked back with those wide, innocent eyes.

  “Want me to teach you CPR?”

  Sadie looked perplexed.

  “Erm… it’s when you bring someone back to life after they stop breathing. Could be useful.”

  Sadie shrugged. Desert wasn’t sure if this was a non-committal shrug of whatever, or a shrug because she didn’t understand.

  Desert knelt on the floor.

  “Come here, and I’ll show you.”

  Sadie leapt from the chair and crawled over to Desert, looking at her with the eagerness of a faithful pet.

  “So, what you do…”

  Desert looked around. She took a large, ripped cushion from the sofa and put it on the floor.

  “Let’s pretend this is our person who’s dying. So this cushion is a person who’s suffocating. Can’t breathe. Yeah?”

  A pause, then Sadie nodded.

  “So first thing we do is check the heart, keep it beating. So we put our fists together like this.”

  Desert interlocked her two hands.

  Sadie watched.

  “Can you do that?”

  Sadie still just watched. Desert nodded to Sadie’s hands and Sadie slowly them into an identical position.

  “Then we lift them above our heads like this,” Desert said, lifting her hands above her head.

  Sadie gave a vacant look then copied.

  “And we bring them down, like this,” Desert said, bringing her fists down upon the cushion.

  Sadie looked slightly perplexed, and unlocked her hands.

  “Right…” Desert pondered, then decided she’d go on regardless. “That’s on the person’s chest, yeah? Their chest.”

  She patted her own chest.

  Sadie paused, then nodded. Desert had no idea whether this meant that she understood or not.

  “Then we give them more oxygen. So say this part of the cushion is the face, okay?” Desert moved to the top of the cushion and looked at Sadie.

  Sadie paused, then nodded.

  “We pinch their nose, and breathe out long, hard breaths.”

  Desert pretended to pinch a nose, then moved her head down and pushed out a long, hard breath. She moved her head back, choking from the dust, which prompted Sadie to giggle.

  “A few more of them, and this should be the point when someone would wake up. Do you want to have a go?”

  Sadie paused, then nodded.

  Desert waited, but Sadie did nothing.

  “Are you having a go?”

  Sadie continued to look back at her blankly.

  It was useless.

  Maybe it was only Gus that Sadie understood.

  “Never mind,” muttered Desert, and she left the room.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Gus dropped the book.

  T
he final word was read and it was done.

  The images of his daughter left and the gangrenous, mutilated, pale monstrosity before him remained.

  Still snapping.

  Still pulling.

  Still grasping and contorting and wriggling and writhing and desperately trying to reach Gus’s flesh with its greasy, stinking hands.

  No sign of humanity whatsoever.

  Gus sighed.

  Dropped his head to his hands.

  This is so stupid.

  He wouldn’t admit it to the other two. In fact, he would stubbornly assert that this was a great idea, despite the time pressure and despite the stakes and despite the severity of the situation.

  But he knew it.

  I don’t stand a chance.

  How foolish he must look.

  The others were probably up there laughing at him. Making fun. Chuckling heartily at his expense.

  Oh, what an idiot, reading a book to a zombie.

  Oh, what a numpty, smiling and playing nice to the infected.

  Oh, what a hinderance, what a pointless man, what a disappointment to the cause.

  He stood. Stretched his legs. He could do with a break but there was no time.

  He took the CD player he’d found upstairs and placed it atop a few broken boxes. He pressed the on button and, to his surprise, it switched on.

  Then again, why was it so surprising? Wasn’t like there was anyone here to wear the batteries out…

  He pressed play, no idea what music was about to start.

  It was something classical. Beethoven or Tchaikovsky or something like that. Something cultured.

  Something that he’d never listen to, but appreciated.

  It reached a crescendo and he could feel the emotion of the orchestra. He closed his eyes and let it overcome him, let it pulsate through his body.

  He looked to the zombie.

  It paused.

  Stopped snapping. Stopped groaning. Stopped reaching out.

  Was this it?

  Was it learning?

  Gus smiled, stepping toward it eagerly, and–

  Its yellow teeth clamped down as it thought it had hold of Gus’s hand. A few teeth fell from its mouth upon the strength of the snap.