He’d woken up this morning, eyes still closed, listening to Grace murmuring and whimpering in her sleep (he’d never known before how much sleep-muttering she did!), opened his eyes, and realized his head—for the first time in God knows how long—was completely clear. He lay there on his bed and listened to someone on kitchen duty banging pots and pans on the far side of the tropicarium, the sound of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons being played over the PA system, and finally Mr. Carnegie announcing breakfast time.
And he realized he felt…OK.
Totally weird thing, Dad.
He scribbled in his journal.
I feel fine. Is that wrong?
Leon looked at those words written down on the page and then scribbled them out. It felt bad writing that down. It was as if he were saying, “Yeah, eight billion people died six months ago, but, hey, at least I’m feeling better.”
Me and Grace are doing OK. This place is safe and pretty well organized, and I think we’re going to make it. Plus, I’m not a hundred percent sure about this, I may be reading the signals all wrong, but I think Freya likes me. She’s different, Dad. You’d like her. I think Mom would have liked her too… She’s kinda sparky.
He looked at “sparky” and wondered what that actually meant. It seemed to sum her up though: she was funny, ballsy, smart…and mature. Not mature in the sense of being all solemn and awfully sensible about things, but emotionally mature. Knowing what people were really saying when they talked. She came up with some pretty clever stuff.
Leon realized he might possibly be falling for her. He’d wanted to take a swing at that creep Dave. He trusted Freya and Grace’s version of what had happened. Mainly because he’d seen with his own eyes Dave’s wandering gaze like a fumbling freshman’s fingers. He’d watched him, listened to the little sarcastic asides to his wingmen Phil and Iain. He acted like a king in waiting. Waiting for Ron to make some big mistake, to trip and fall, or more likely be pushed. He wondered if all that kept Dave from staging a coup was his knowledge of that one gun locked away in Ron’s desk.
It had been three weeks since Dave had tried groping Freya, and Mr. Carnegie’s botched solution that they should just stay out of each other’s way had surprisingly worked so far. Apart from the occasional glares across the tables at mealtimes, the peace had been kept, but Leon couldn’t help wondering how long their current little world was going to last. He wondered if a rescue from someone somewhere was already underway, or whether they were all alone and at some point would find Ron’s regime being replaced with Dave’s.
• • •
“The guy’s a complete dick,” said Spanners. He lit his crinkly, self-rolled cigarette again. For the third time, Leon noted. “I served with a first lieutenant on a ship who was like him. Treated the Taiwanese crew like dirt. Dave’s bad news.”
He blew smoke out, and the breeze carried it quickly away across the roof of the tropicarium. Ron didn’t permit smoking anywhere inside the complex, which was one of the reasons why Spanners volunteered to do watch duty pretty much all the time.
“You were in the British Navy?”
Spanners snorted. “Nah, merchant navy. Container ships. Second engineer mostly. Good laugh some of the time.”
“Those big ships?”
“Oh yeah, they’re big.” He snorted again. Leon wasn’t quite sure when he did that whether he was laughing or just clearing his nose. “There was this one time, when we cleared our berth in Hong Kong, when we lifted our anchor…” He looked at Leon. “Big anchor, right? I mean, the size of a car. And each of the chain’s links the size of a washing machine or something… Anyway, we were drawing the anchor in, and we found bits of the rigging of a junk tangled in among it.”
“Junk?”
“Fishing boat. We must have dropped it on them. Sank the poor buggers. I don’t know if we killed anyone. I hope not.”
“Jeez.”
“Yeah, big ships. Ten-mile turning circle. That’s why they never stopped if someone went over the side. No point. Plus it cost too much in diesel and time.”
Leon scanned the horizon with the binoculars. There hadn’t been any signs of the virus in more than a week now. The last sighting had been one of Spanners’s: a bloom of spores floating like a twist of campfire smoke in the distance.
“Do you think the plague is over?”
Spanners sucked on his cigarette. “The infectious disease bit? Dunno… I’m gonna keep taking the tablets for a while yet. But I guess the virus stage has got to die out at some point. Stands to reason…there’s nothing left for it to infect.”
“I guess so.”
“It’s the same as zombies.”
Leon lowered the binoculars and looked at him. “Huh?”
“Well, you’ve seen zombie movies, right? It’s the same crap every time. The world gets infected and those things eat human brains for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, right? So, how come, after everyone’s been infected apart from the heroes, these zombies don’t, you know, all just starve to death?” He snorted. “All you’d need to do is sit tight until they dropped from hunger, right? And what about the fact they’re made of decaying flesh? How do the muscles work? The tendons? How do they even digest brains and turn that into fuel if they don’t have any working organs?” He shrugged. “That’s why I think zombie films are a load of old crap. There’s no logical framework or—”
Leon spotted something moving in the trees. A flash of something tan-colored among the rich, dark evergreen.
“—thought behind them. Might as well all be magic. Might as well be Harry Potter, or—”
He saw it again. Something moving around among the trees. “Spanners! I just saw something.”
He stopped talking and looked at him. “Snarks?”
“No…I don’t think so. It was brownish.”
“Well, there’s a lot of brownish stuff out there. You sure?”
“It wasn’t leaves or branches. It was something else. An animal.”
“Where?”
Leon pointed to the trees around the tennis courts. “Over there.” He handed the binoculars to Spanners.
Spanners squinted as he stared through the lenses. “You sure?”
“I saw something.” Leon shaded his eyes and scanned the trees again.
“Brown you say? Like a rabbit? Or a fox?”
“Bigger than that. You think we should raise the alarm?”
Spanners sucked on his teeth. “Maybe.”
Leon caught sight of that flash of tan again. Farther to the left, in the parking lot. “There!” he said. “It’s by the cars!”
Spanners swung his binoculars to the left. “I can’t see anything.”
“Next to the van. The green van.”
Spanners aimed his binoculars where Leon was pointing. “Oh…shit, you’re right!”
It was moving one way, then the other, like something lost, confused. Leon couldn’t make out what shape it was or even judge precisely how big it was, the dappled light coming down and the gaps in the fir trees providing only disjointed glimpses. Then suddenly the creature changed direction again, left the parking lot, and darted into the trees.
“Lost it,” said Spanners.
“It was big. Maybe it was a moose or something?”
He chuckled. “We don’t have moose over here, lad. There’s plenty of deer in the park though. Well, there were, anyway.”
He spotted movement again. Something hovering uncertainly behind some bushes near the front entrance to the spa. Moving backward and forward, pacing like some frustrated predator behind the bars of a cage. Finally, it emerged into the clear space before the main entrance.
“Oh my God…”
Leon smiled. “No way.”
Chapter 42
“Please! Please can we let it in?”
They were all gathered in the lobby bes
ide the spa-treatment reception desk, watching the horse trotting backward and forward outside. It looked to Leon’s inexpert eye like it was horrendously malnourished and clearly distressed. The animal must have remained untended for some time, maybe locked in a barn somewhere, and had only now finally managed to find a way out.
Grace was pressed up against the window waggling her hand to get its attention. “Please, Mr. Carnegie…before it runs away!”
“I don’t think it’s going anywhere, Grace. It needs feeding I’d say.”
“Poor thing,” said Claire. “It looks so hungry.”
“It is starved horse,” said Sofia, one of the cleaning ladies. “We must give it food.”
Half of those present murmured in agreement. Leon couldn’t help but notice the gender split on the matter: females nodding, pitying the sad creature’s condition; males more likely silently considering whether they were ready to try eating fresh horse meat.
“To be absolutely clear about this…we are not thinking about letting it in, right?”
All heads turned toward Dave.
“I’m serious! We don’t know if that thing is infected or not!”
“It must be like us,” said Terry. “Immune. It could have been on some medication that rejected the virus.”
“Or maybe it’s been locked away somewhere and hasn’t had a chance to interact with the virus yet?” said Leon. On the issue of whether they should let it in, he found himself in the odd position of agreeing, reluctantly, with Dave.
“Well, if it isn’t immune, we have to let it in before one of those crabs comes out and stabs it!” said Grace.
Freya nodded. “Come on. We’ve all seen how quickly the Snark affects things. If it’s been infected, it would be showing signs already.”
Ron pursed his lips and air whistled between his clenched teeth. “To be fair, it doesn’t look infected. Just hungry.”
“It could be useful to us, Mr. Carnegie,” said Spanners. “As transport…or as fresh meat.”
Grace turned to look at him, utterly disgusted. “We are not going to eat it!”
“I’m just being practical.”
“Ron?” Dave stepped toward him. “Seriously? We are not letting it—”
Ron scratched the back of his neck indecisively. “A horse…could be very useful.”
“What?” Dave shook his head. “I’m not putting myself at risk just because the girls want a pet pony to ride!”
“What’s the risk?” Freya answered.
Leon realized that this was the first time in weeks that she had even acknowledged Dave existed.
“We’re immune. That horse is…or it isn’t,” Freya said.
“Well, I’m voting we don’t let it in.”
“Well, I vote we do.”
He huffed. “Now there’s a shocker.”
“Oh God, why don’t you grow a pair?”
“Cut it out, you two!” snapped Ron irritably. He wandered over and joined Grace by the window. “It looks OK to me…just very, very hungry.”
“Please?” begged Grace. “If he’s not immune, we should let him in quickly!”
“How do you know it’s a he?” asked Ron.
She looked up at him and made a face. “Please? Can we?”
He looked again. “Ah yes…of course.”
“Ron!” Dave stepped forward. “This should be down to a vote. Not just your decision!” He tugged at his green top. “You’re not my boss anymore, mate. Or anyone else’s.” He turned to look for support and got some nods from Iain and Big Phil and one or two others.
“The only reason you’ve been in charge here so far is because you were the manager—”
“All right.”
Dave was silenced by that.
“All right,” Ron said again. “You’re quite right. We should probably all vote on this.” He turned to address the others. “Right then, everyone…who’s voting that we let the horse in?”
Grace’s hand shot up. Freya’s too. The cleaning ladies…Claire…Spanners. Others too. Roughly half of them. Ron dutifully counted the raised hands.
“And who doesn’t want to let it in?”
The rest of the hands went up, including Leon’s, Dave leading the way. He silently counted them. “Interesting…it appears we have a dead-even vote.”
He smiled dryly at Dave. “Looks like it’s my deciding vote that counts.”
He rubbed his neck, then looked back down at Grace for a moment. Outside, the horse had ceased its incessant back-and-forth trotting and come to a rest outside the glass doors. It hung its head wearily, like a criminal resigned to its fate and awaiting a judge’s sentencing.
Ron lifted the keys off a clip on his belt. “All right, then. I’ll take him around the back to the service entrance.” He unlocked the door, then tossed the keys across to Terry. “Will you let me in?”
• • •
Ron stepped outside and let out a shaky breath.
You’re going to have to watch out for that young man. He’s trouble.
Ron had been marginally inclined to shoo the horse away, cruel as that would have been. It was another mouth to feed. But Dave’s challenge needed a response. Ron had been preparing himself to go against the vote and make an executive decision, to flex his authority and demonstrate who was in charge here. Luckily he hadn’t needed to.
He spread his palms as he approached the horse. “All right, boy, I’m not going to hurt you.” He approached the animal slowly. The horse eyeballed him warily, snorting and shuffling restlessly on its hooves.
“You poor, poor boy,” he cooed softly. “Been in the wars, haven’t you?”
The horse’s flanks were mottled with bald patches of skin, crisscrossed with raised welts from scratches and cuts. The bare skin looked sore and dry.
There was a term for this… Mange, wasn’t it?
The animal had no halter on it, nothing with which to lead it. Ron cautiously held out his hand and felt the hot breath coming from its flared nostrils. He’d never handled a horse before, never even stroked one. He wasn’t even sure whether patting it on the muzzle like a dog was the right thing to do.
Instead, he rested a hand on the horse’s neck and gently tugged at it. It complied wearily, snorting and dipping its head in surrender.
Ron led the way and the animal followed obediently. “There’s a good lad.”
Through the window, he saw them all watching eagerly, Grace beaming at him through the glass. He gave her a wink and then rounded the corner, the horse clopping dutifully beside him.
“Poor boy. You look hungry.” He looked at the animal’s large brown eyes ringed with dried mucus. “Have you been crying, lad?”
He didn’t know if horses cried, as such. Probably not. “Well, you’re going to be fine now… Although, what on earth are we going to feed you, hmm? I’m afraid we don’t have any apples or carrots. This way, boy.”
He led the animal down the side of the building, finally coming to a halt outside the double doors that led to the main storeroom. For now, they could keep it in there—it was a little bit like a stable, certainly space enough for a horse.
He knocked on one of the doors. “I’m here, Terry!”
He looked around for any sign of snarks. Last time he’d been on a foraging trip, admittedly several months ago now, there had only been those crablike things. They didn’t appear to have eyes and seemed to respond sluggishly, probably reacting to scent. He couldn’t see any now.
He knocked on the door again. “Terry?”
The horse snorted beside him. Like him, it was looking anxiously around.
“It’s OK, boy. None of those nasty little critters nearby.” He heard the jangle of keys through the corrugated metal of the shutter door. “Come on, Terry! I’d like to come in now, please!”
“Just a sec
…just a sec,” Terry called through the door.
The horse shifted uneasily. “Easy, boy, easy now.” Ron patted it gently on the back of his neck. The mane felt odd. He’d expected the texture of knotted, greasy hair; instead, it felt like tire rubber. He looked more closely. The dark mane appeared to be coarse hair slicked down by grease, but it was a solid mass. He had a fleeting childhood memory of riding a merry-go-round, sitting on a white plastic horse and feeling vaguely cheated that the animal’s mane was just more painted, molded plastic.
He could hear a key being shoved into the padlock on the other side. Ron rested his hand on the mane again and squeezed it. His fingers left dents that slowly vanished like grip marks on memory foam.
That’s weird.
He ran his hand across the animal’s flank, where the tan-colored coat was thickest. The hairs felt a little like wood grain. They didn’t splay like toothbrush fibers—they presented one solid, textured surface, like the leathery hide of an elephant.
The shutter door rattled to one side.
Very weird.
He took a step back and looked at the rear of the horse, at its tail. It hung down between the horse’s hindquarters, limp and lifeless.
“Sorry, Mr. Carnegie. I couldn’t figure out which key it was.”
Ron wasn’t listening. He ran his hand down the tail. Like the animal’s mane, it felt like a length of ridged, molded rubber. Not horse hair, but a simulation of it. Just like that merry-go-round horse…a solid blob.
This…thing…isn’t…right.