"Here, let me do it."
Rachel sat next to the bed in a small wooden chair, and began to scoop the eggs up with a fork, guiding them toward his mouth.
It embarrassed Michael, to be fed like a toddler, but the gnawing hunger pushed the shame away, and he took the eggs into his mouth gratefully, chewing vigorously and ignoring the pain when he swallowed. It was the best food he had ever eaten.
He ate in silence awhile, letting his thoughts gather, feeling as if his mind were a jigsaw assembling itself slowly.
"I can't feel my legs, Rachel," he said finally, and he knew from the falling of her face, the way her eyes suddenly refused to meet his. Knew even before she spoke.
"When...we crashed into the tree, a piece of a branch was in your lower back. Victor took it out. He said it wasn't life threatening, but there was a good chance that..."
Her voice trailed off, as if speaking the words would make it real.
Michael focused all his thoughts, all his energy on his feet, trying to move them, even to wiggle a toe, but there was nothing, not even a feeling of dead weight, just...an absence that began at his waist.
"I'm paralysed," he said flatly.
Saying the words was a curious business. Michael, at least the Michael that had existed before St. Davids erupted in mindless violence, would have met such news with unyielding black despair, a consuming fear and anxiety that would have slowly destroyed him. Paralysis. The latest instance of bad luck in a life full of it.
Instead, he felt oddly detached from it. The news that he was paralysed reached him as might news that it was raining outside, or that today was Tuesday.
Maybe I'm just in shock, Michael thought. Maybe when it sinks in, it will do so under the weight of a mountain of despair.
It didn't feel like that to Michael, though. Something inside felt different, something that told him that a life without legs was better than no life at all. For a man used to pessimism, the change was startling. For now, he decided, it was best not to dwell on it.
He swallowed a final mouthful of the eggs, and shook his head slowly when Rachel moved to get another forkful.
"Tell me what happened," Michael said. "Tell me about Victor."
Rachel's expression darkened, her eyes losing focus.
"We're in his house, well, his...bunker I suppose you'd call it. Most of it's underground, that's where we are now. They can't get to us down here. He was in the woods that night. He said they, the infected, he calls them, had been attacking his land for hours, and he was out driving them back when he saw us, saw them chasing us.
"He's got guns, Michael. Explosives too. It's like a fortress here. It's a place we can stay and be...safe."
Michael nodded slowly, understanding. Rachel's words said one thing, her tone and stiff body language another. She sounded as if she were reciting some practised script.
"Did he say why he has this place?"
Rachel shook her head, and stood, preparing to leave.
"He's got cameras everywhere, Michael, watching everything. So...you know, if you need anything, he'll see.”
Her words were pointed, the subtext not lost on Michael.
Michael nodded his understanding, fixing her eyes with a meaningful look.
“I understand,” he said. "Can I talk to him?"
Rachel nodded.
"I should let you get some rest. I'll tell Victor you asked for him."
She turned to leave.
"Wait," Michael said. "What about Jason?"
Her head dropped a little as she turned back to face him.
"Is he here?"
"Yes," she replied. She pointed at the open doorway.
Michael lifted his head a little. Through the open door he could see into the next room. Jason's massive frame filled a too-small-for-him armchair facing away from him. He looked oddly serene sitting there, unmoving.
When Rachel spoke next, her voice cracked with emotion.
"He's done nothing but sit there since we got here. He hasn't spoken; he doesn't seem to hear anything. It's like he doesn't even know we are here."
The sadness in her voice made Michael's heart ache, and he understood then. Understood that she was putting a brave face on the situation for Jason, and for himself. Understood that her dedication to Michael's health stemmed from the fact that there was nothing she could do for Jason.
Michael's body was broken, and there were at least things Rachel could do to help that. Jason's injury was ethereal, intangible, and he saw the helplessness she felt written clearly in here eyes.
And something else. Terror. Hidden well, but definitely there. Michael thought of the careful neutrality she exuded, the claims that they were safe, and realised there was only one thing here to be afraid of.
Victor.
"How long have we been here Rachel? How long have I been unconscious?"
Rachel's head dropped, as though she didn't want to think about it.
"Five days," she said, her voice flat and featureless as a becalmed ocean.
Michael reached out to comfort her, his fingers landing lightly on her forearm.
She flinched, tears filling her eyes, and then hurried from the room without a word.
Michael looked at Jason for a moment, sitting stock still, facing a wall, and was reminded of visits to his ancient grandmother at a home for the elderly, and the way she stared at nothing in particular, locked away in her memories.
Then he let his head drop back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about what could have happened in those five days to turn the strong, focused woman he had met in the midst of chaos into the guarded, fearful person that had just left the room.
*
In the narrow kitchen, Rachel scrubbed the plate clean of the eggs, polishing it until it looked new.
With each passing night that Michael had remained unconscious, she had prayed that Victor's prognosis that the policeman would be paralysed would not come to pass.
When Michael had told her that he couldn't feel his legs, she had felt her spirit break. Jason was unreachable, and, sitting in his chair night after night, remained oblivious to what happened each evening on the floor above. She didn't know whether the sound of it, the gasping, sneering violence in the locked room even made it down through the floor, or whether Jason's ears were simply closed off forever.
Neither Michael nor Jason could help her. It was just her and the lunatic who spoke in different accents, words that sounded like dialogue from bad action movies. The lunatic with the guns.
Suddenly, she felt so alone, so hopeless, that she wanted to cry, but already she had been made painfully aware that every inch of the bunker was monitored and recorded, and Victor's retribution would be swift and brutal.
She scrubbed until her arm ached, and the skin of her palm was raw with the friction, stopping only when she heard the hatch that led to the outside opening above her head, the hatch that separated the hell above from the hell below.
*
Victor had spent hours rearming the traps, setting up hair-fine tripwires and pressure plates, using up almost all of the explosives he had stored on the basement level of the bunker.
When he was satisfied that the area was secure, he set off for the bunker again feeling exhausted and happy.
He couldn't really explain to himself just why he had gone to the aid of the people tumbling around in the crashing car that night, but to say it had paid off was an understatement.
The long years of solitude had practically neutered him, driving away all of his baser desires for the company of women, but finding one in such distress on his very doorstep, a pretty young thing so vulnerable, so powerless to refuse his advances, had awakened a monumental sleeping hunger inside him, and now the passing hours were marked with that delicious, rapacious appetite growing until it ached inside him, secure in the knowledge that it would be satisfied.
She had resisted that first night, displaying a spirit he found admirable, if
futile, until Victor had levelled the gun at the back of her retard brother’s meaty head. She'd broken then. A delicious fracturing of her psyche that Victor could almost taste, and that made his groin ache every time he thought about it.
Finding the cop with them had been almost even better. Victor had been distracted by the mindless herd attacking his home, and had presumed the policeman dead, so discovering that he had carried on the adventure, recording it all for Victor to savour at a later date, was like a fine dessert after a mouthwatering meal.
When Victor had discovered the policeman's change of uniform, and the subsequent loss of the micro-camera, his rage had been primordial, and he had made sure the girl paid the price.
Now, the policeman was simply leverage. It was obvious the girl cared for him somehow, obvious that if ever threats on the brother proved less than persuasive, threats on the cripple would do the job nicely. And besides, he had found something in the policeman's uniform pocket that excited him enormously, something that, if he was right about it, would be worth keeping and showing to the man. One final act in the policeman's drama before Victor finally decided to remove him from the equation.
They were, Victor thought as he returned to his home, like a marvellous little family, a family of obedient little children, all ready to please the master of the house in one way or another.
As Victor approached the hatch, he felt his cock twitching in anticipation. The little bitch would be pleasing the master of the house soon enough. Maybe he'd even move the action down to what had become the hospital wing of his little house, and get her to please him right in front of her idiot brother.
Victor snorted, and opened the hatch that was hidden under a pile of refuse in the squat surface building, and descended the ladder, locking it again from the inside.
The days work is done, he thought excitedly.
Playtime.
Chapter 12
Michael had lain in silence for hours, trying desperately to think of ways that he might be able to escape the situation in which he now found himself.
A couple of times, he had tried to call out to Jason, but the big man's head didn't even move.
Rachel, evidently, was on another floor, out of earshot. Michael wondered how big this place could be, and just what would drive a man to build himself an underground prison in the middle of nowhere.
He thought back to his meeting with the man in the woods, the man he was certain was the Victor that Rachel had spoken of, remembering the wild, unhinged look in his eyes when he had removed the hood, and shivered.
He spent a while fruitlessly searching for sleep, and then he heard the footsteps approaching, and stared at the open doorway, suddenly wide awake.
Rachel appeared there. Her head was bowed, but Michael could see the blackening eye, the swollen, bloodied lip, and a cold fury filled him.
Behind her, another figure appeared. The man from the woods. Victor. As Michael watched, eyes narrowing, Victor slid his hands around Rachel's waist. Rachel tried – and failed - to suppress a flinch.
"Why don't you go back upstairs my dear?" Victor drawled amiably. "I'd like to have a little discussion with our friend here."
Rachel turned without a word, and shuffled away, her eyes never leaving the floor. Victor watched her leave, and when Michael heard a door closing distantly, he found the man's psychotic eyes returning to his own, drilling into them.
"Hello Michael," Victor said warmly, and Michael noticed that the odd Germanic accent he had used when they first met had now vanished, replaced with nothing at all, a flat, controlled tone that revealed nothing about where Victor was from.
"How are you feeling? You had us all worried you know."
Victor strolled to the chair by the bed, and sat in it languidly. He affected a babyish pout, a mockery of concern.
"Not as badly as I might have expected, in the care of a lunatic," Michael replied coldly.
Victor's eyes darkened.
"I don't think that's any way to talk to the man who holds power over whether you live or die is it Michael?"
Michael sneered.
"You think you're some kind of god down here, hiding out like a coward?"
Victor flinched, just a little. After a moment he visibly relaxed, and forced a laugh: a mean, mirthless sound.
"A god is precisely what I am now Michael. What is a god, do you think? I think it's just a symbol of power, and in the brave new world taking shape above our heads, I think I'm going to appear very powerful indeed."
Michael eyes narrowed, as if trying to hold in the pressure of the frustration building behind them.
"What do you know about it, what's going on out there?" He snarled.
Victor smiled serenely.
"Apt that you should bring God into this Michael, for I believe our divine maker" – the words came out laced with contempt – "is at the very heart of this. People, after all, are ruled by fear in one way or another. It is fear that makes us all toe the line. Fear of retribution, in this life or the next. That was a very nice touch. That certainly gave the notion of God some...longevity."
Michael's brow wrinkled. Victor's rambling was becoming more and more incoherent, even as the man himself became more animated, losing his grip on the steely control with which he tried to conduct himself.
"The trouble with God is that now there are just too damn many of us, and increasingly people are wondering: where the hell are all the miracles? And once people start to question it..."
Victor shrugged, as if his conclusion was obvious.
"You're insane," Michael spat, bitterly.
Victor shrugged, smiling benevolently.
"So you keep saying. But it's all relative, isn't it Michael? We're only as sane as the world allows us to be. Am I any less sane than the majority? The unthinking herds that now wander the land above us, killing each other with their teeth? Am I less sane than that retard in the next room, trying to find answers in the peeling wallpaper? Less sane than you? You speak of sanity in the same way drooling idiots speak - spoke - of God, as if it is some cornerstone of your humanity, some treasure that you can hoard. Have you learned nothing? The sanity of humans is a veil of lies, and that veil has now been lifted. We're animals, Michael, you, me; everyone. Creatures of instinct, born in violence. What is happening up there is no disaster, it is an epiphany."
"You did this," Michael said. "I don't know how, but you're involved. You have turned your own species into rabid dogs, not me, so: yes, you are the one who's insane."
"You are sane because you are allowed to be Michael," Victor said, his eyes glittering dangerously. "Because I am allowing you to be. Remember that. But alas, you are wrong, this is not my doing, at least not entirely. I was merely a cog in a much greater machine. The difference between us Michael, is that I was blessed with enough intelligence to notice when the wind changed direction, while you were merely carried along by it."
"So let's see how your sanity holds up shall we?" Victor said casually, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a piece of paper.
Michael squinted at it, and felt his heart lurch painfully.
A small, folded square of paper, emblazoned with his name in Glenda the receptionist's spidery handwriting.
"You didn't find the time to read this Michael? I thought not. Allow me to read it for you: 'Michael, the call came over the radio while you were gone. I tried to reach you but the phones are down and I can't raise you on the radio. It's a message from Aberystwyth PD. They said your wife had been taken to hospital, she had something wrong with her eyes. Your daughter is missing. They want you to call them urgently. Glenda.'"
Michael’s world collapsed. His worst fears were realised. St. Davids wasn’t the start of anything. Just another town like any other. The virus was not a dam breaking in this town, it was a tsunami. There was nothing to stop it.
No...Claire...
Victor saw the realisation spreading across Michael’s face, and giggled.
Michael str
uggled to sit up, grasping feebly toward Victor's throat. Victor leaned back, evading him easily, and laughed.
"There it is Michael, you see? The animal inside, simmering below the surface. You'd kill me now if you had the chance, and you wouldn't even realise as you choked the life out of me, that you were simply confirming that I am right, and you are lost. Are you struggling to save yourself? The girl upstairs who humbles herself every night to meet my needs? Your daughter? The world?"
He cackled.
"The world you knew is gone Michael, and it is not coming back. The decision was taken long ago, the outcome decided before you or anyone else was even aware there was an argument to be had."
"You see Michael," Victor said, leaning closer. "The virus is in all of us now. We've been breathing it in for years, and it has lain dormant, waiting for someone to push the button and activate it. You're one of the lucky ones, and you know why? Because of me. Because the virus spares only those with my blood type, and because I designed the fucking button for them. You live because of me, as do all the others."
Victor stood, and walked to the doorway, turning back to fix Michael with a smug grin.
"So, Michael, tell me, how am I any different to god?"
Michael laughed coldly.
"The difference Victor, is that a real God would know what was standing behind him."
Confusion passed across Victor’s face, and then his eyes widened in fear.
Before he could turn, Jason's massive fingers curled around his neck, gripped him like a steel vice, and began to choke the life out of him.
"Jason wait!" Michael yelled, and locked his gaze onto Victor's bulging eyes.
"Is there an antidote to this, can it be reversed?"
Victor grinned.
"Fuck you."
Michael's head dropped in despair. He didn't see Victor die, but he heard it, the crunching, snapping of his neck as Jason's massive hands closed inexorably.
When Michael looked up, Jason was standing over him, one hand outstretched. Jason's eyes, once boyish and then utterly empty, were now filled with something else, bottomless pools of rage that sent a shudder through Michael. When he spoke, his voice was flat. It sounded like steel.
"Let's go and find your daughter."