The Screaming (Book 2): Refuge Read online

  The soldier reached into a second box and pulled out a pair of cheap sports shoes and handed them to Zac.

  “These should fit. Through the door and keep walking.” He said, handing Zac the pair of size 11’s.

  Zac emerged back out into the expanse of the hangar, but found himself confined to a narrow corridor, flanked by chain link fencing to either side. Feeling suddenly exposed, he quickly got dressed into the tracksuit and sports shoes, before hobbling along the set path. He continued through the labyrinth of fencing until he exited the hangar through two large iron aircraft doors and into a dark floodlit compound.

  The large concrete area spanned several acres between adjoining hangars and was enclosed with large steel fences that reached 9 feet high and were topped with a continuous spiral of razor wire. On each corner stood a large floodlight rig, each running off a noisy diesel generator. Beyond the glare of the lights, Zac could just make out the silhouette of a soldier atop a cherry picker, who grasped a large scoped rifle to his chest like a mother nursing a baby.

  The compound was filled with hundreds of people, each wore a cheap grey tracksuit similar to Zac’s and their hands displayed the blue marker pen branding of the old doctor. Some people huddled together in dark shadows outside the arc of the intrusive floodlights, others hobbled aimlessly around the large open space. Some mumbled to themselves, others cried, but all had the look of intense trauma and fear. Zac wondered if he looked so broken to them. On the left of the compound was a small porta-cabin, with a sign that read “ORIENTATION.” On the roof of the cabin a loud hailer boomed a repeating list of instructions to those contained within the compound.

  “ALL NEW ARRIVALS REPORT TO ORIENTATION.”

  “REPORT ANY SICKNESS IMMEDIATELY.”

  “YOU ARE SAFE. PLEASE REMAIN CALM.”

  “FOOD, WATER AND MEDICAL ATTENTION WILL SOON BE ADMINISTERED.”

  “PLEASE RESPECT THE BOUNDARIES OF THE COMPOUND.”

  Zac slowly shuffled through the host of empty people towards the cabin.

  Chapter Seven

  Long fly coated fluorescent tube lights coated the small dingy room in a grubby yellow beam. Vinyl wood effect wallpaper struggled to cling to the walls, as the mouldy damp advanced slowly skyward from the stale, fusty brown carpet. An outmoded office desk occupied the brightest corner of the inconsistently lit room. Reams of paperwork, files and a flickering laptop concealed the mahogany effect plastic worktop and a broken swivel chair was tucked neatly behind the desk.

  Suddenly a door opened to Zac’s left, that had passed under his radar when he’d entered the room. In walked a short Asian male, wearing a white “doctors” coat and grasping a cup of black coffee in a chipped china mug.

  “Ah! Hello there!” The man said as Zac’s presence in the middle of the room stopped him in his tracks, at the expense of some of his coffee.

  “Orientation?” Zac enquired.

  “Yes, Yes, Please sit.” The man replied as he hurried around the back of his desk.

  Zac Scanned the room for another chair, but finding none, stayed standing on the spot and awkwardly folded his arms. The man took several moments longer than was truly necessary to get boastfully comfortable in his own chair, pausing to take a sip of coffee from the old mug, which grated on Zac’s impatient nerves. The man smiled over the desk like a creepy quiz show host. A long greasy pony tail of black hair draped over his shoulder and a pair of thin framed gold spectacles clung to the bottom of his bulbous nose.

  “Okay… Welcome! Name?” The crusty doctor said, licking his fingers and reaching for a form from a pile of paperwork on the desk.

  “Zac… Tennyson.” He replied, strangely having to think to recall his surname.

  “Wang!” The doctor abruptly replied.

  “Sorry?” Zac was confused but curiously humoured.

  “Doctor Wang!”

  “Oh… I see.” Zac muffled his rising grin with a fake cough.

  “Z.A.C.T.E.N.N.Y.S.O.N” Wang Mumbled under his breath as he populated the form.

  “Can I see the back of your hand please?” He continued.

  Zac raised the blue pen mark on his hand towards the oddly cheerful medical man.

  “No immunity. Okay!” He noted before scrawling it on the form.

  “Have you found anyone who’s immune?” Zac asked.

  Wang paused. His pen stopped on the page as if time had stood still. Without looking up he raised his smile once again.

  “Not yet.” He optimistically uttered before time resumed and the pen moved across the page again.

  “A bit late now isn’t it?” Zac pressed.

  Frustration set in on Wang’s face as the pen froze once more. Zac noticed the irritation and decided to tweak the nerve some more.

  “I mean, if the Screamers don’t destroy the country, we’ll just bomb it anyway.”

  Zac grinned with satisfaction. Wang slowly placed his pen on the desk and struggled to release a controlled exhale as he stared at the sea of forms in front of him. Several moments passed before Wang finally raised his head, smiled again and looked at Zac.

  “Well. I’m reliably informed by our military friends that the bombs on the cities were dropped by the Russians. I guess they were taking matters into their own hands.”

  Zac’s smug grin dropped from his face like a stone to the floor. Had he heard him correctly? He definitely said cities. Plural! He felt his chest tighten and a sudden pain cut through his stomach. Wang quickly realised his mistake and tried to change the subject. He slapped the smile back on his face, stood up and walked over to a map of the United Kingdom that was pinned to the wall.

  “Okay, moving on. Look at this map. Where were you when you first came into contact with the infected?”

  Zac wasn’t paying attention anymore, all he could think was…

  “Where else?” He didn’t even realise he’d said it out loud until Wang responded.

  “Just forget about that. You’re safe! Look at the map.” Wang insisted.

  But the cat was already out of the bag.

  “Mr Tennyson, please!” Wang pointed at the map again.

  Zac raised his head and looked at the map, a tear rolled down his cheek and he sniffed, before shuffling to the wall and pointing.

  “Tower Hamlets! You were in London?” Wang asked.

  “Yes.” Zac uttered.

  Wang paused, before walking around the back of his desk, taking hold of his chair and wheeling it around to the front.

  “Please, sit!” He indicated to Zac.

  Zac slumped into the chair and felt the instant relief from the soles of his feet fire the length of his legs. Wang leaned over next to him.

  “How? I mean… How did you get out?”

  “Helicopter.” Zac replied.

  “Shit! Military? Civilian?”

  “Military. It crashed when the bomb went off!”

  “HELO 17. You were on HELO 17?”

  Wang’s demeanour had changed. An emotional fluster had replaced the optimistic smile.

  “There was an army medic on board. A woman!” Wang was rattled.

  “Thorne!” Zac replied.

  “YES!” Wang became excited and grabbed Zac’s arm.

  “Where is she?”

  Zac looked the desperate man in the eye.

  “I’m sorry. She’s gone!” Zac whispered.

  Wang sank to the floor, as though his skeleton had been removed.

  “How? I need to know!”

  Zac paused. The truth of her end would be too much for the strongest of people to stomach and Wang was clearly beyond this already.

  “In the crash. It was quick!” Zac confidently replied.

  The teary doctor sank deeper into himself and an uncomfortable silence filled the cabin for what seemed an eternity, before an increasingly impatient Zac unsubtly cleared his throat. Wang looked Zac in the eye.

  “Thank you.” He said, wiping his face.

  “Now, let me help you.”

 
He reached for the desk and levered himself to his feet, before taking hold of his pen and a small yellow pad. He scrawled the pen hastily across the pad, tore off the top sheet and held it out to Zac.

  “Here. Take this pass to the gate and show it to the guard.” Wang said holding out the small piece of paper.

  Zac took the slip and Wang turned to the door.

  “Wait. I have to know!” Zac continued.

  “The cities! Is Lincoln one of them?” Zac pleaded.

  Wang paused, looking at the door.

  “No. London is the only one in the UK!”

  The soldier smiled respectfully as he handed the yellow pass back to Zac and directed him through the gate and out of the compound towards a small wooden booth. A small female soldier occupied the booth. She forced a smile as Zac limped up to the hatch and handed her the pass. She studied the tatty piece of paper before looking Zac over.

  “Okay, Triple-A clearance!” She announced.

  “Sorry?” Zac replied, with a puzzled pitch.

  “It says here, Access All Areas!” She replied as she pointed to the three A’s scribbled on the back of the pass.

  “Oh, I see!” Zac said.

  “Occupation?” The smiling trooper continued.

  “Pardon?” Zac’s confusion returned.

  “Your job? Medical? Engineer? Military?” Her tone had mutated into a rehearsed, patronising dialogue.

  “Medical!” Zac replied, recalling the recent renewal of his First Aid at Work certificate at the Bar last month.

  The soldier selected a white plastic pass from under the counter. A red cross adorned the front, next to the letters AAA. She attached a red lanyard and handed the pass to Zac.

  “Thank you, Sir!” She offered as her parting comment.

  Zac slowly hobbled away without any real sense of where he was going. A row of large 1930’s office buildings, each stained with the peeling remnants of cold war camouflage paint, lined a bustling road. A long row of trucks laden with large crates of boxes labelled, UN AID, straddled the kerb between the roadside and the churned grass verge. A flurry of people hurried about their business, darting in all directions, military and civilians alike, each with their own important mission of the moment to fulfil. Chains of troops formed without instruction between a truck and the open doorway to a building. Aid boxes flowed along the telepathically linked conveyer belt and into the door.

  Zac painfully shuffled down the street, past a huddle of blooded nurses sharing a cigarette, like school girls behind the bike sheds. Soon the pain in his abused feet was too much once again and he folded over onto the road side. Agonizingly he peeled the blood filled sodden shoe from his right foot and inspected the freshly compromised blisters and scabs that clothed his foot like a spotted sock. The relief was incalculable as the pain eased. He slowly repeated the process with his left foot and sat staring down at the cheap pair of sports shoes.

  “Not very fashionable, are they!”

  Zac raised his head to see a second pair of the cut-price footwear pointing towards him. That soft posh voice. Its familiarity grabbed him by both shoulders and shocked him back to the actuality of his hazy surroundings. He looked up to see a familiar rosy face smiling back at him with perfect soft lips stretched across her pretty face, catching a steady flow of tears as they rolled down her cheeks. He couldn’t believe his eyes, but instantly found himself weeping uncontrollably. She squatted in front of him and balanced herself on his knee. Contact, she is real!

  “Hey!” She uttered.

  “Fee?” Zac gulped as he reached up and caressed her cheek.

  Chapter Eight

  Large Georgian sash windows flanked three walls of the old office, with a set of bulky wooden doors dominating the fourth. Computers, copiers and cabinets had been cleared to the corners or upended to make way for cot beds and medical equipment. Desks remained in place, their flat raised surfaces making adequate substitutes for gurneys. Though bustling with the activity of military medical personal, distinguishable by the Red Cross lanyards over their camouflage fatigues, the expansive room was strangely vacant. Zac slumped in a blue swivel desk chair, his pride denying him the comfort of a bed.

  “It’s only just been converted today!” Fee stated as she caught Zac surveying the room.

  “Ready to receive survivors!” she continued.

  She approached a table covered in an array of medical supplies and proceeded to pull on a pair of small disposable gloves. She then selected several packs of bandages from a plastic tray and a box of anti-bacterial wipes, before pulling another swivel chair up in front of Zac. She leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee, inciting Zac to look up from the uncontrollable, terror induced tremble, his hands displayed. He slowly raised his head, her soothing smile offering the encouragement to raise his head fully until he met her welled eyes. Fee reached into the cardboard box resting on her lap and pulled out an anti-bacterial wipe. She raised it to Zac’s face and started to clean the weeks of ground dirt from his grimy cheeks, that had been missed by the cursory hosing down.

  “Fresh as a daisy!” She said, throwing the soiled wipe into a red bin bag to her left.

  She then took hold of his ankle, raised it onto her lap and set about tending to his threadbare feet. Zac looked down at his grated toes, some missed nails, others appeared so blooded that they had matted and fused together.

  “Would you like something for the pain?” Fee asked.

  Zac tried to reply, but produced nothing more than a gravelly croak. He resorted to shaking his head and gripped tightly onto the supple leather arm rests of the chair.

  “How long have you been here?” He uttered, clearing his throat.

  “About a day!” She replied as she continued nursing his blistered feet.

  “How?” Zac forced.

  “It’s a bit patchy. I remember the Helicopter crashing and Janet dragging me through a field. Then it all goes blank until I woke up on the back of an Army truck.”

  “Janet’s here?”

  “Yes, it appears there is quite a demand for the clergy at the moment.” She bitterly joked.

  “…and Max?” Zac pressed.

  Fee concentrated on tending to Zac’s gammy feet. Almost clamming up at the mention of his name.

  “He’s here!” She said.

  “That’s great! I can’t believe it! All of us!” Zac said with a stirring relief.

  Zac looked for the same stimulation from Fee, but found little in response, until a single tear fell from her face onto his exposed foot. The salty fluid seeped into an open sore between his toes causing an acidic burn to shoot up his leg. He clenched his teeth and fought back the pain, denying his senses the reaction they craved. He inched up in the chair and leant towards Fee. She raised her head and looked at Zac. The paths of tears stained her cheeks like contours on a map. Zac raised his hand to her face and wiped a tear away with his thumb.

  “Tell me.” He said.

  “It’s probably best if I show you! But not yet, let’s get you on your feet!”

  Zac nodded towards his tatty extremities and presented Fee with a toothy smile of dubious humour. The trails of sorrow that donned Fee’s red face cracked, as she fought back a rising smile that quickly gave way to a giggle.

  “That’s better!” Zac said.

  “How do you do that?” Fee enquired, regaining her composure.

  “What?” Zac sarcastically asked.

  Fee leaned forward, threw her arms around Zac’s neck and squeezed him tightly.

  “Don’t leave me again!” She whispered.

  Zac raised his arms and hugged her back.

  “I won’t!” He replied.

  Zac hobbled along behind Fee, unsteadily labouring forward on aluminium crutches, across an old parade ground and between two large barrack buildings. Soldiers hung out of windows, some smoked or drank, while others appeared to be writing letters. As the pair slowly progressed between the buildings, one young soldier was sat on the steps of a door
way to their left, his Kevlar helmet rested on the step next to him and his rifle offered a suitable arm rest as he stared at his lifeless mobile phone. Zac thought it unlikely that he was changing his Facebook status.

  “SMUDGE was KILLING PEOPLE @ THE END OF THE WORLD, with DANO, CHALKY and THE SARGE!”

  No, he was more than likely, staring at his lifeless phone in desperate need for one last look at photos of family and loved ones, or in the frantic hope of receiving an improbable text message from a distant sweetheart.

  “This way!” Fee said.

  They rounded the building to the right, passing a machine gun nest, hastily erected from old ammo tins and sandbags. Two more soldiers watched from within the shadows of the nest, as the couple passed them by and limped onwards towards the building at the bottom of the road. At the end of the road stood an isolated dome Nissan hut of curved corrugated metal. Atop the vaulted green edifice was a large oak cross above a regal, yet practical sign that read, RAF ALCONBURY INTERDENOMINATIONAL CHAPEL.

  Tens of people clustered around the big wooden doors, men, women, civilian, military. All congregated expectantly and eagerly like happy hour at a soup kitchen. Some were on their knees, others had hands clasped together praying. Others wept and sobbed into their hands or clothing. Fee steamed through the crowd towards the doors, ploughing a path for Zac to limp after her and up to the doors. Several voices of the assembled vocalised their aversion to the couple’s queue jumping, but still they parted and they soon found themselves within the gloomy interior.

  Large military inspired tapestries, draped from walls, each with pictures and scripture of praise and support for troops and their families. Ranks of pews lined the room, separated by a narrow aisle that lead to a small alter. Evenly distributed candles offered shadowed flickering light. Enough for the figure at the front to barely silhouette in front of a large American flag. The figure turned as the clutter of the door closing behind Zac boomed through the long room.

  “I’m sorry, no more services today!”

  “It’s Fee! I’ve brought someone to see you.”

  Zac hobbled up the aisle into the light of the nearest candle.