Gradually, my breathing slows and the dizziness subsides. Dark thoughts go through my mind in the silence, bent over on the floor. I am infected, I know it, I can feel this virus in my cheek, ready to burrow further into my bloodstream. Images of Josh and Emily pass across my eyelids. I have let them down, especially Emily, still so young and so dependent on me. I feel immense sadness that I won’t be there for her and to see her grow, and it fills me, tears seeping through my closed eyes.
Despair nearly takes over me, but then Josh and Emily start to give me hope and strength; am I going to give up on them so easily? Never!
Lifting my head, I look over in the direction of Sir Malcolm, immediately seeing what I knew was there. I scramble across the floor and grab the bottle of Sir Malcolm’s best single malt Scotch whisky, his last tipple before shooting himself. Discarding the top, I pour it straight onto my gashed cheek. The sharp sting is instant, but it doesn’t deter me, I pour again, whisky running down my cheek and neck and soaking into my top. Now I put the bottle to my lips and take a large swig, the whisky biting, burning my throat before it slides into my welcoming belly, warming it.
Getting to my feet, I pull the toilet roll from its holder and return to the sink, plonking the bottle and roll down. Under the torch’s light, I look again at the gashes and pick up the bottle to have another large swig. Using my fingernails, I retrace the lines of the gashes, digging deep into my own skin, ignoring the pain. I want to get the blood flowing outwards.
Blood seeps more readily out of the gashes after my surgery and I pour more whisky over them. The sharp sting feels deeper now, or is it just my mind playing tricks? Unfurling a good wad of paper from the toilet roll, I drench it in whisky and press the sodden paper into my cheek, pressing hard and keeping it there despite the burning sensation. The smell of whisky is strong, anybody coming into the bathroom now would think I’m trying to drink myself to death, not trying to save myself.
A deep burning throb pulses in my cheek, I scan around the sink for some painkillers. Sir Malcolm always had some around for the arthritis he suffered with, in his hip. Nothing. Picking up the torch, I check the cupboard under the sink, and bingo, packets of ibuprofen piled next to his other drugs. I take two tablets swilled down with water and I lower the wet paper to check my wounds in the mirror. My cheek is swollen and the gashes quite inflamed, worryingly so. Despair flares up again and my head drops; this isn’t the first time I’ve been injured, not by a long chalk, the gashes don’t look normal.
Trying to stay positive, I pick up the torch again to see what else is in the cupboard. There are various packets of drugs; Sir Malcolm must have had other ailments I was unaware of. I have no idea what most of them are for, but I do recognise the antibiotics. They won’t have any effect on the virus if I am infected, but at least they will stop an infection from the wounds. Putting the antibiotics onto the top, I look again at the other packets. There are two different packets that look like the antibiotics and I decide to take them along with the antibiotics; one of them might be antiviral, so what have I got to lose?
Turning away from the mirror, the concoction of pills taken, I slump down onto the floor again. This time, however, I sit with my back resting on the cupboard below the sink, the paper still pressed onto my cheek. I have done all I can, I think to myself, and I unclip my M4 which is still strapped at my front and put it onto the floor beside me. The burning has gone off, so I pour more whisky onto the paper, have one last swig and then press the paper back against my cheek. I haven’t noticed if any Rabids have entered the office next door; I haven’t been listening and I’m almost beyond caring.
Now I can only wait to see if I am infected. Time will tell, although I don’t know how much time. I hope Josh is halfway back to base, back to relative safety and to be reunited with his sister. My head flops back against the cupboard. I think I will rest my eyes for a minute.
Chapter 19
Josh runs across the roof, directly at the waiting Lynx and the welcome sight of Alice waiting at the hold door to help him on board. Water droplets spin through the air in every conceivable direction, gravity having lost the battle against the helicopter’s rotors, at least for now.
Alice grabs his outstretched arms and pulls him into the relative calmness of the Lynx’s hold. They don’t exchange any pleasantries, Alice immediately raising her rifle again, aiming back across the roof to provide cover. Josh spins around, taking a position next to Alice and he does the same ready to help Watts who is approaching fast.
Downey is quickly onboard too, but Dixon is hesitating; something is wrong, Josh thinks frantically. He sees his Dad shout at Dixon who then, thankfully, lowers his rifle and starts to make his run. Josh allows a small amount of relief as Dixon comes; his Dad should be close behind him. Dixon passes halfway but his Dad doesn’t move from his position. Now, Dad, run now!
A blast of noise travels across the roof as the Browning erupts. Dixon slows, debating whether to turn around and go back to help. He decides against it though, as it might
