The Last Plague Read online

  Ralph moved the car down the driveway. Henry was standing at the end of the driveway. Henry nodded at them. No smile. No expression.

  “I hope the monsters don’t get them,” said Florence.

  Frank smiled at her. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  The road ahead was silent and dead.

  Back through the village. They passed Magnus’s house, and they looked at it one last time, wondering if he was still in there with his family. They passed Frank’s house, and Frank could not help looking at the windows, hoping he’d see Catherine’s face peering out at them. They passed the still-burning devastation that had been Joel’s house, and Joel ignored it with his head bowed.

  No one spoke. The men said a silent goodbye to their home village. Frank wondered if they would ever return here and, when or if the time came, he would want to return.

  The village was dead and rotting, and the silent houses were nothing more than memorials to the people who once lived here.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  They passed through many more places that were wrecked and spoiled and burnt. Most of them were lifeless, save for the scattered and ragged groups of infected watching from their squalid holes. Some ran at the car as it passed, bolting from doorways and passageways, reaching for the car with fleshy hooks and stained claws. Gibbering and shambling scarecrow-like figures scrambled out of houses painted with splashes of red.

  They saw bodies that had been thrown into pits. They saw heaps of corpses in a field, piled high, burnt and blackened and twisted. Hollowed out and jumbled together. Piles of things taken from nightmares.

  Amongst the corpse-mounds were abandoned army vehicles.

  A few miles on, Ralph stopped the car next to a field covered with stubbly grass pushing from the earth. There were two figures in the field, heading towards them. Madly-gangling silhouettes.

  “What are you doing, Ralph?” asked Joel, glancing towards the approaching figures.

  Ralph didn’t answer. He stared at them. Every breath he took induced judders in his arms. His face was creased, lilywhite and angry. His eyes were seething moons, bloodshot and framed with shadows the colour of grave dirt. His mouth was a thin and narrow cleft. His temples pulsed. The skin tightened on his face until his cheekbones were pronounced and bulging.

  “Ralph,” said Frank. “Ralph, what’re you doing?”

  Ralph grabbed his baseball bat and got out. Before Frank could open his door, Ralph had already opened the gate to the field and was stomping towards the figures, his bat swaying in his hands.

  “Wait here,” Frank said to Joel and Florence. Then he was out of the car and running after Ralph.

  Ralph was almost upon the skittering infected.

  Frank broke into a run.

  * * *

  The inhuman, slick-faced mutations growled at Ralph. The first one, a woman who was naked except for a torn t-shirt stretched over warped arms and crooked shoulders, went at Ralph with hands formed into raking talons. She frothed and screamed, her eyes bleeding down her skeletal face.

  Ralph swung his bat and hit her on her arms, breaking them with a sickening crack. She howled, but still came towards him, gibbering and crying. He went at her with such intensity and such rage that when he had finished with her, and his bat was dripping with red, she was nothing more than a shattered heap of wet bones upon the dirt.

  The other infected, a man with needle-sharp black quills protruding from his back and a damp gurgling in his throat, leapt at Ralph. His face was malformed into a mask that looked like it was made of melted wax. His mouth parted in small gasps in which his tongue slithered through and tasted the sore skin around his lips.

  Ralph smashed his head in. His skull bled onto the cold ground. His legs twitched and jerked. Ralph finished him without hesitation and then spat on his corpse.

  Ralph turned to Frank and stared at him. Frank took a step back. Ralph’s face was pallid and severe. His eyes bore the look of sickness.

  “Are you okay?” Frank kept his voice as low he could.

  Ralph exhaled through his mouth. “Am I okay? Good question. I’m fucking dandy, mate; thanks for asking.”

  “I’m sorry about your parents.”

  “They didn’t deserve to die, Frank.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why did they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ralph’s eyes reflected the grey world around him. “I had to kill my mum, Frank. She was infected. She killed and partially ate my dad. She had loved my dad. They had loved each other. And I had to fucking kill her like she was a diseased animal.”

  “I’m sorry,” Frank said.

  “It’s not just my parents; it’s Magnus as well. He’s gone. He’s one of them. What’s happened to the world? What’s happened to us? I want things to go back to what they were like before. Everything’s fucked, mate.”

  “Let’s go back to the car,” said Frank.

  “I hate them,” said Ralph. “I want to kill them all. I don’t want to stop until I’ve wiped them out.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ll be dead by the end of the week.”

  “Don’t say things like that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “No, it’s not. I made a promise to take care of Florence.”

  Ralph laughed bitterly and shook his head. “Of course, it comes back to the girl.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what I mean. The way you look at her. She looks like Emily, doesn’t she?”

  Frank didn’t look at Ralph. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “You think, somehow, that she’s your daughter. I don’t know how. But you’re wrong. She’s not your daughter. Your daughter is dead, Frank.”

  “Shut up,” Frank said.

  “She’s dead. Emily’s dead, Frank.”

  “Shut up.”

  “She’s gone. Wake up. You’re a fucking fool.”

  Silence. Frank’s hands were shaking. They held eye contact, neither willing to look away first.

  Then Ralph lowered his gaze to the ground, shame burning his face.

  “Let’s go back to the car,” said Frank.

  Ralph nodded. They didn’t talk as they left the field.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Joel was driving the car now and Ralph was sitting in the front seat next to him, staring out at the dull, washed-out world.

  They wormed through South Somerset and into Devon. Speckles of rain patted against the windscreen, but the downpour that threatened didn’t appear.

  They were fifteen miles from Sidmouth, heading towards the coast. There were gulls drifting lazily in the air. They passed a burnt out truck with charred corpses spilling from its open back. Crumbling remains. A charcoal scarecrow was leaning against the truck, white teeth grinning, tufts of hair jutting from its scalp. Drifts of ash like ghosts.

  There were no signs of life along this road. The silence and stillness of the empty earth. It was enough to make Joel’s heart shrivel.

  All he could think about was Anya. All he could think about was holding her, kissing her.

  They rounded a corner and there was an army Humvee parked across the road, blocking their way. Three soldiers were standing next to it. One soldier held up his hand for Joel to stop. The others raised their rifles.

  Joel stopped the car.

  “I hope they’re a welcoming party,” said Frank.

  * * *

  The camp had been set up in the fields outside Sidmouth. It was a sprawling, stinking mess of mud, ramshackle tents, open latrines and just under a thousand refugees, according to the soldiers. The military was fighting the infected in the town, mopping up those still infesting the streets and buildings. The soldiers said that the army had incurred heavy losses all over the country and was heavily undermanned here. The remaining soldiers stationed at the camp had been dragged together from the surviving rem
nants of different units in the area.

  The Humvee made its way down the hill towards the camp. The camp filled two fields. Tents in blocks and rows, like the regimental formations. A chain-link metal fence surrounded the entirety of the camp. Just beyond the northern side of the camp was an area of dark grey land. Plumes and drifts of smoke. The soldiers were burning something down there. Flickers of flame.

  Florence had a look of wonder on her face.

  “The camp’s a shithole,” said Private Underwood, a young man with dark skin and green eyes. He kept wiping his nose with the back of his hand. A boy with an assault rifle. “But it’s better than trying to survive on the streets.”

  “Too right,” said Corporal Graves, from the front passenger seat. He was a bull-necked, softly-spoken man. “The infected are everywhere. That place down there is paradise compared to some of the other emergency camps I’ve seen set up since the outbreak.”

  “What happened to the other camps?” asked Joel.

  Graves hesitated. “Most of them are gone. Wiped out.”

  Soldiers patrolled the camp’s perimeter. They watched the Humvee approach the front gates. Tired-looking men. They were ghosts. They were shades.

  Private Bunce stopped the car. Graves spoke to one of the guards as another soldier confiscated their improvised weapons including Ralph’s baseball bat.

  Ralph complained, albeit quietly.

  The Humvee was waved into the camp.

  “Underwood’s right,” said Ralph. “It is a shithole.”

  Bunce parked the Humvee next to a portable cabin situated between two haggard shacks. A child was crying somewhere nearby. A dog was barking. Frank could smell wood smoke.

  They exited the Humvee. Corporal Graves pointed towards the cabin. “You’ll be registered in there. First, you’ll all have to be checked for infection. Follow me.”

  Graves led them to another portable cabin. Inside were two middle-aged women playing Hungry Hippos on a rickety table. The women looked up, annoyed at being disturbed. One of them, grey-haired and plump, glared at Graves.

  “More stragglers,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  Graves nodded. “Yeah. If you’d be so good as to check them for infection, Violet.”

  The woman eyed him, didn’t move.

  Graves sighed. “Please.”

  “That’s better,” she said, and stood. “Right, you lot take your clothes off. We’re gonna take a look at ya.” She glanced at the other woman, who had also risen to her feet. “Sandra, you take the girl in one of the cubicles. I’ll check the men.”

  Sandra went to Florence and took her hand. Florence resisted, looked at Frank.

  He nodded. “It’ll be okay. Go with the nice lady.”

  “I ain’t nice,” said Sandra.

  Florence whimpered. She snatched her hand from Sandra’s and stepped back. “I don’t wanna go.”

  Sandra glowered at her and sighed.

  Frank went to Florence. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and put one hand on her shoulder. He smiled at her. “It’ll be okay; we’ll be out here. We’re not going to leave you here, okay? I would never leave you here on your own.”

  Sandra rolled her eyes. “Oh, please…”

  Florence looked at Frank, bottom lip quivering a little. She blinked. The faintest of nods. “Okay. You promise to stay here?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  Sandra led her into a cubicle and closed the blue plastic curtain behind them.

  Violet looked at Graves. “You stay here, in case they’re infected and something happens. One of the last survivors you lot brought in nearly tore my face off.”

  “It wasn’t that bad, Violet,” said Graves. “You do embellish, don’t you?”

  “I’ll remember that when one of these fuckers bites me in the arse.”

  “It’s big enough.”

  “Cheeky fucking squaddie.”

  Graves nodded, grinning.

  “Okay, lads,” Violet said, slipping on a pair of surgical gloves. “You lot seen The Full Monty? Strip off and let me see what you’ve got.”

  * * *

  After being given the all-clear they had gone to the registration cabin. Inside was a greasy-haired man behind a desk cluttered with pens, stacks of paper and notebooks. He was called Simms. He noted their names in a register, writing with the methodical nature of a seasoned administrator who takes too much pleasure in numbers and pie charts.

  Joel and Frank had asked about Anya and Catherine.

  Simms regarded them with pale eyes. There was a yellow bruise on his chin. His glasses were held together by duct tape. His shirt was crumpled. His beard stuck to his lined face in wispy patches and clumps, black and white in colour.

  Their names were on the register.

  Joel almost cried when her name was read out.

  “Where are they?” asked Frank.

  “I’m not sure where your wife is, Mr. Hooper, but Mr. Gosling’s fiancée is working as a nurse in the medical centre.”

  Joel swallowed. “The medical centre?”

  Simms’s face was blank. “It’s a big tent about a hundred yards from here. You can’t miss it.”

  Joel was already out of the door.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Ralph followed Frank and Florence to the medical centre. Joel was ahead of them, struggling to keep his footing in the mud. He stopped at the entrance to the tent, lifted one of the canvas flaps and looked inside.

  The others caught up with him.

  Rows of beds, most of them occupied. Medics buzzed between the aisles. Volunteer nurses tended to patients. A soldier stood guard in a far corner, tiredness slackening his face. There was a desk in the nearest corner with a thin woman stationed behind it. Her hair was pulled back in a vicious ponytail. She looked up at Joel. Her eyes were dull and sleepy.

  “Excuse me,” said Joel, breathing hard from his run. “Is Anya Lewandowski here?”

  “Who?” She was sucking on a sweet, rolling it around her mouth.

  “Anya Lewandowski.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m her fiancé. Where is she? Is she here?”

  “She’s just finished her shift.”

  “Where has she gone?” Joel’s voice was watery and weak.

  “I’m here, Joel,” Anya said.

  Joel turned. Anya was standing there. She said something under her breath in Polish. She smiled.

  He threw his arms around her. Relief and amazement and reunion. Joel held her by the arms. They kissed deeply and slowly. Anya put her face against his chest as he nuzzled her blonde hair. He closed his eyes, rocked against her. She was crying.

  Ralph watched them with envy burning in his stomach. And a little bit of hatred. He thought about his parents, their faces dwelling at the fringes of his mind, and tried to push them away. He didn’t want to think about them. He wanted to feel anger, not grief. He could do something with anger. It felt like his eyes were heating up inside his head.

  “Thank God I found you, Anya,” said Joel. “I thought I’d never see you again.” He gazed into her eyes.

  “I thought you were dead,” she said. Her words were muffled by tears. Joel wiped her eyes dry. “I can’t believe you’re here, all of you. I thought you were either killed or infected.”

  “We barely survived. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen. That we’ve all seen.”

  Anya looked at the others in turn. “Is Magnus not with you?”

  No one spoke.

  “Magnus is gone,” said Joel, finally.

  Anya nodded. Her face was sad and flushed pink, her mouth a thin crease. “Oh. Poor Magnus. I always thought he was a good man.”

  “Yes, he was,” said Joel. “I miss him. We all miss him.”

  “But the rest of you made it,” Anya said. She smiled at them, but the smile faltered at the corners of her mouth when she looked at Frank.

  Frank looked at her. “Where
is Catherine?”

  Something changed in Anya’s face.

  “I’m sorry, Frank,” Anya said, her voice low and trembling from her throat. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  * * *

  Anya led them to the northern perimeter of the camp. Frank’s legs were shaking cartilage and bone. He looked absently down at his feet as the ground sucked at him; his shoes were caked with mud. A creeping dread was filling his body.

  The air smelled of rot and smoke, meat and ash.

  Anya turned to him, apologetic and silent. Joel was next to her, and he was slack, pale and morose. Ralph and Florence looked past Frank, out to where the land was mutilated and burnt. The scorched earth where figures meandered.

  Frank looked beyond the fence. He placed both hands against the wire. Something was unravelling slowly in his guts and he expected it to come spilling out of him in a slow, slick, slopping bundle. His eyes were stinging. He bit his tongue and wanted to taste his blood.

  “I’m sorry, Frank,” Anya said. He barely noticed her until she handed him Catherine’s wedding ring. He snatched it from Anya’s hand, holding it between his fingers.

  “She’s dead,” he said, not believing the words he was saying.

  “Yes, Frank,” Anya said.

  He stared at the ring. It was warm. His last piece of Catherine.

  The smoke. The stench. The craters in the ground. Pits where the flames writhed like nesting serpents. Beyond the fence was where the corpses were taken; where the dead were put to rest.

  Where Catherine had been put to rest.

  Frank swallowed. “Catherine’s out there.” His voice was papery, the words swept away on the breeze.

  Anya said, “The soldiers take the bodies out there to be burned in the pits. I wanted to give Catherine a proper burial, but the soldiers wouldn’t let me. They said that every corpse had to be burned in the pits.”

  Frank watched the men push bodies into the ground. The men were masked and wearing boiler suits, boots and gloves. They were carrying spades and shovels. A mechanical digger punched into the earth and scooped up dirt, piled it into a mound as big as a house. Soldiers guarded the gravediggers, keeping watch upon the grey land.